


The Sweet of Night

by xfandomwritingsx



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Dirty Talk, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:54:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23576509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xfandomwritingsx/pseuds/xfandomwritingsx
Summary: After growing up besides Loki and having a complicated friendship with him, you visit him in his cell at night.
Relationships: Loki (Marvel)/Reader, Loki/Reader
Comments: 50
Kudos: 407





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Alright this is my first Loki fic and it’s going to be at least 2 parts. We’ll see what happens once I actually start writing the second part and see if I can accomplish what I want in 2 or if it needs more. Enjoy and let me know what you think.

You lay awake in your bed, your mind tossing and turning inside of itself. Ever since it was announced that Loki lived, you’d been on edge. Breaths of relief mixed with despair, fear, and confusion. And now he’s here, just below your feet in the cells, and the anxiousness in your bones just won’t settle. Your relationship with him had been both complicated and nearly non-existent to the public eye and despite the anger you’ve felt, the only thing you can think about is going to see him. 

You had met Loki at a young age. Your father being a highly decorated General of Odin’s and your mother a respected healer, you were around the boys since you could remember. Though you had always considered yourself closer to Thor, if you’re honest when you look back on it, you’d gravitated towards Loki more than you’d like to admit. 

You were similar in many ways, both of you eager to delve into your studies and learn hidden secrets. You were mystified by his magic as much as you were scared of it at first. You both held a voice of calm and reason, him towards Thor and you towards your closest female friend, Sif. Albeit, your voice held much less trickery than his. 

Despite your draw to him, the very first time you had been alone with him had been well into your coming-of-age period, when matters of higher education, your position in Asgard, and even marriage had sent you into a wave of anxiety, leaving you to flee your chambers in the midst of the night through hidden corridors to simply catch your breath. Loki lurked in one such cramped space, startling you and forcing a dagger to his throat. 

“Look who’s out of bed so late,” he’d chuckled and tsked his tongue. You lowered your blade and slipped it back into the band around your waist. 

“Should you not be in your chambers as well?” Irritation at being chastised leaked out. “I didn’t realize anyone else knew this was here.” 

“I know all of Asgard’s hidden paths.” Arrogance. It made your skin prickle. 

“Not all of them, I’m sure,” you challenged him. You’d mapped out everything from the lowest town to the royal palace in your years. His arrogance could be matched. “The northern gate to the-” 

“The eastern docks? Yes.” His eyes practically glowed with intrigue, stepping closer to you in the small space. You stiffened. “How about the masked chamber behind the war room?” 

“The lever to the door is behind an animal skull.” He smirked at your answer. “The convergence of multiple tunnels beneath the town streets?” 

“The singular point at which they all meet in the middle? I call it the crossroads.” He took another step closer and you found yourself shifting your body away, hugging the wall as if to let him pass. “How about the room with the blue door?” Now that did not sound familiar and all it took was a slight furrow of your brow for that winning smirk to grace his features. “Ahh, so it seems you’re the one who knows not all.” He crowded your body, taking your pressing into the wall as invitation to stand in front of you in the narrow hall. “Why, I wonder, have we not crossed paths before?” 

“My need for secrecy and hidden passage ways is not high.” You hoped there was a bite in your tone, that he picked up on the subtle jab at his own mysterious motives for everything he did. 

“But you have need of it tonight?” His hand slipped into yours as he ignored your implications. “Why is this?” 

“The burden of choice,” you answered honestly. You felt suddenly very heavy and you reciprocated his grip on your hand just to feel something solid. “You and Thor have futures laid out for you, but me? There are so many decisions, some not even my own. Everything is threatening to change and I fear I’ll be frozen in indecision forever. Forgotten as time moves forward so quickly.” His demeanor changed at your sudden outpouring of your heart. His shoulders dropped as his grip softened and his too-close presence was no longer intimidating and uncomfortable. “Please forgive my outburst,” you said hastily, remembering suddenly that you were still in the company of a prince. “These are not your burdens.” 

“They need not be my burdens for me to have care.” The kindness in his voice was surprising, but not unwelcome and you weren’t in a position to question it. His thumb traced a cold path along the back of your hand. “You will be alright. I have never known you to make a poor decision.” 

“I fear I may make my first in the midst of this all,” you admitted, looking down towards your feet. 

“Perhaps I should rephrase,” he corrected. “You’ve made many a poor decision; tagging along with my brother and I a great many among them.” You couldn’t help the smile that tainted your lips. “But you’ve made all your decisions fruitful ones. They were not good decisions by design, but rather you made them such.” He gave your hand a squeeze. “I have no doubt you’ll continue to do so.” 

“Thank you, Loki.” His words gave you comfort and confidence. You looked up at him and something you didn’t recognize flashed in his eyes as they shifted up and down your form. You weren’t yet sure if you liked it or not, but it made your skin flush. 

“Run along now,” he told you, slipping his hand out of yours and sliding away. “Before someone realizes you’re out of bed.” 

It had been a small interaction, but one significant enough for you to draw closer to Loki. You came to realize, however, that his kindness would only come in times such as that; in distress and isolation, never in public eye. 

Time passed and your intelligence and skills earned you a place as a high consultant, a planner of operations both civil and military. You still trained for battle, sparred with your companions regularly to keep your skills sharp, and found yourself swinging your sword on more than one occasion. You did however prefer being in the background more than on the front lines. 

Loki grew different; charming and snarky up close, but cold and jealous from a distance. You found yourself in verbal spats with him often, his silver tongue irritating to you. You both secretly enjoyed your barbed exchanges though, each challenging the other in a way others did not. 

His flirtations became plentiful, both with yourself and other women, but you never let yourself look too deep into them. It was all a game, for himself and for you. He aimed to break you and you refused to give him the satisfaction. 

You were not entirely innocent either, however. You would push back on him and after one such instance, where during sparring he had you pinned to the ground and you’d rolled your hips against his in an attempt to keep the upper hand, Sif had questioned you on your intentions. You’d scoffed at her and brushed her comments off, forcing yourself to forget the way your body had heated beneath his and his voice whispering taunting words in your ear. Loki made forgetting quite easy as his sharp tongue was quick to return to its irritating nature. 

His private moments of friendship were refreshing and genuine, often coming as care and comfort in times when you were too stubborn to reach out and ask for it. You held onto those memories and reminded yourself of them when you were wanting to slap him across the face in front of your peers. And it was because of those moments that your loyalty to him never wavered and you were unaccepting of the truth when it was first presented in front of you. 

You had been on the Bifrost, running your tests and making your notes, when he approached you. You heard him behind you, felt his presence, but ignored him until he spoke. 

“Why do you bother?” he asked, arrogance already flooding his voice. 

“It is the one path in and out of Asgard,” You don’t even look up at him, not willing to play whatever game he came for. “I would be a fool not to inspect it regularly.” 

“You don’t truly believe that, do you?” he chuckled. “The one and only path?” This earned a glance in his direction and you found him staring pointedly off into the distance. The way it said it unsettled you. 

“I know of not another,” you said carefully. “Do you?” He remained quiet but his lips tilted in the smallest smirk. “If you know of another path, it is your duty to Asgard to inform me.” 

“It is mere speculation,” he lied smoothly. You could feel the dishonesty in your bones. “Odds would simply suggest there’s another way.” You watched him closely, trying to read his body language, but the trickster was too good even for you. 

“If you were to find something like that?” you prodded. 

“I would honor my duty to Asgard,” he told you, finally casting his gaze on you with a sparkle in his eye that you weren’t sure you liked, but his words seemed true. He approached you swiftly, taking your hand in his own. “I shall leave you to your work.” He bent at his waist slightly to softly kiss your knuckles. He gave you a quick wink before pulling away and for what you don’t like admitting _isn’t_ the first time, your stomach fluttered and a blush threatened to creep onto your cheeks. You took your hand back and gave a short curtsy. 

“My Lord,” was your dismissive farewell. It brought a playful smile to his face, but he left without further interaction. 

It was mere days later when everything flipped upside down on everyone. Thor had been banished and you had doubts, concerns you were too afraid to voice. Could Loki have been capable of doing it? Was his jealously truly that deep? Sif and The Warriors Three sure thought so. You’d kept mostly quiet during their discussion, words and accusations burning on the tip of your tongue and yet feeling like it would be a betrayal to voice them. 

You’d gone with them to the throne room, expecting Odin and to feel confident in yourself enough when you saw him that you’d be able to speak. Instead you’d found such an unnatural and yet natural sight; Loki on the throne. His words were calculated, a fragile softness wrapped around cold words to disguise them. For the first time, you felt truly weary of him, afraid even. 

He’d asked you to stay behind when the others left. He’d called your name so calmly and beckoned you back to him. You obeyed. How could you not with him as King? He smiled coldly. 

“It is still early, but there is a position within the royal palace I believe you’d be well suited for,” he told you. “A very important one.” He started circling you, his eyes on you making you straight and stiff. 

“With all due respect, my Lord,” you started, somehow keeping your voice steady and polite. “I believe I’m needed at my current post given the circumstances.” He came to stand in front of you, a glint in his eye. “There was a large security breach as you’re aware.” You tried to keep the bite from your tone, but it came through in the slightest. His lips tugged up as he repressed a smile which was not the reaction you’d expected. 

“Of course,” he said, nodding his head. “But in time, I’d like to see you and I work much closer. You have always been most interesting to me.” The way he said it did not feel complimentary, but more how a predator is interested in its prey. It sent a cold shiver down your spine. “You could prove to be very… useful.” You resisted the cringe that fell through your body. 

“May I return to my duties now, my King?” Using his new title had the desire effect; stroked his ego enough for him to let you go. 

It was the last real interaction you had with him for years and you were plunged into a myriad of emotions over the time, believing him dead and then his attack of Midgard. And it all lead you to right here, swiftly walking through the halls in the dead of the night. You’d resisted for weeks once he’d returned but you could not any longer. You’d thrown on proper clothes and a decent robe and gave in to what you wanted. 

The guards are quick to let you pass and do not ask questions for which you are grateful. Most of the prisoners are asleep in their cells at this hour, but you know Loki will not be. Your feet slow as you approach his cell in the dim nighttime lighting. Your heart beats faster as you finally peer inside. 

He is sitting in his cot, a lamp softly illuminating the book in his lap. He has dark clothes on that look too stiff to be comfortable, but he doesn’t seem phased by them. His hair is longer than the last time you saw him. He looks… well enough considering his circumstances, though his presence still feels like a ghost to you. 

You’re not sure if he doesn’t notice you standing outside of his cell or if he’s simply waiting for a decent point in his reading to pause. You suspect the latter. 

When his eyes finally rise to greet you, there’s no surprise in them, but a softer, gentler emotion. You fear for a moment that you won’t find your words. He takes the time to mark his page before setting his book down on the table and swinging his legs over the side of his cot. 

“Finally decided to come see an old friend?” He teases. His voice breaks you of your stoic demeanor, earning a roll of your eyes. 

“Is that what we were? Friends?” You resist the urge to cross your arms over your chest and simply fold your hands in front of you instead. He smiles, delighted at your banter. 

“We could have been friends.” He places his hands on his knees and arches his back, stretching a little. 

“We could have been a lot of things,” you counter. “But that doesn’t make it so.” 

“Oh?” He’s intrigued, placing his elbows on his knees and leaning forward, a wicked look in his eyes. “What else could we have been?” You don’t let yourself succumb to the heat that tries to worm its way through you. You push away the warmth of his words and his looks. Instead, you remain quiet and pensive, looking down at your folded hands for a time before speaking much more softly than you intend. 

“I was told you were dead.” His wickedness fades and he casts his glance off to the side. 

“As was everyone else.” He says it so carelessly, almost in a forced way that makes you wonder if his coldness is a lie. It mustn’t be though. He is a cold, murderess creature if his recent actions are any determination. “Did you mourn?” He refuses to look at you. 

“I mourned the kind, gentle man I thought existed inside of you.” He scoffs at you and forces a fake smile. “I mourned the man who gave me words of encouragement when I was troubled. The man who passed me an extra serving of dessert after my first heartbreak. The man who came into my chambers without permission to make sure I was still breathing after my father’s passing. The man who held my hand at his funeral.” Your words poured easily, listing out only a few of his compassions towards you. His eyes fall to his hands so you cannot see nor read his expressions. 

“Perhaps that man was simply an illusion,” he proposes. “Perhaps he never existed at all.” 

“Perhaps.” You step closer to the cell, wishing to be closer to him. “But I did not mourn the man who stole the throne in such a vicious manner. I did not mourn the man who wanted me as a concubine.” He looks up at that, a dark laugh coming from him. 

“A concubine?” He stands sharply, startling you. His eyes are hard, but hold a softness over them. “Do you think so little of yourself?” he ponders, slowly coming towards his cell wall. Your body stiffens with an anticipation at his approach. His brows knit together as another thought comes to him. “Or do you truly believe I think so little of you?” He seems honestly offended and it nearly makes you feel guilty. He stands in front of you, the barrier wall the only thing between you. “My darling,” he coos, lifting a hand up, the wall turning a vibrant yellow around his touch. “I was to make you queen.” 

Though his words take your breath from you, you try not to let him see. You keep your face a stone and your words even. He doesn’t deserve a reaction from you. 

“Is that supposed to flatter me?” He smiles at your unimpressed tone. 

“I promise you that nothing I’ve ever done has been in flattery to you.” He leans in closer, nearly resting his head on the barrier and you find yourself wishing to lean into him. “Every compliment and kind word is given simply because it’s true.” 

“And every lie?” you ask without missing a beat. 

“Pet, my lies to you have been far and few between over our years together.” You shiver at the endearment he’s chosen to call you by. He’s used it sparingly in the past and you’ve always had to forcefully ignore the way your body wants to respond. “In fact, your lies to me are much more numerous.” You bristle at that. 

“I do not lie,” you snap at him, your feet bringing you closer to the wall, as close to getting into his space as you can. “I would not lie to even you.” 

“Is that so?” He’s amused, licking his lips and smiling in anticipation. “Then tell me, pet. Did you miss me?” Your jaw snaps closed, swallowing the instinctive negative response that boils up. “And not just the gentle man you dream I am, but all of me. Did you miss my sharp tongue during our spats? The flirtation underneath?” 

“The arrogance?” you add, partly to be spiteful and partly just to stop his talking. The way his voice started dropping low threatens to unravel you. His smile doesn’t fade. “The double sided mischievousness and the irritating mystery you project? The illusions and lies?” 

“Listing all my misgivings does not answer the question.” His eyes fixate on you and you let out a heavy sigh, debating your answer. “Did you miss me?” 

Your eyes cast away from his to concentrate. They fall onto his hand, still pressing into the barrier and you notice his fingers moving slowly, curving in as if gently clawing at it and then releasing back to press his palm to it. It’s a slow subtle movement, but it projects such a strong feeling of wanting to be touched, of aching to have something so close yet unreachable. 

You move your hand forward, placing your hand over his, the barrier vibrating and pulsating yellow beneath your palm. Loki stiffens ever so slightly and you catch him releasing a slow breath, relaxing into a simple implication of touch. You inch even closer to the wall, sure he’d rest his forehead on yours if only he could. How long had it been since he’d had a comforting touch, you wonder. 

“Would you say you missed me?” you whisper. 

“Only if you asked.” His voice is slow, lazy. Comfortable. It takes you back to the feelings you’d had when he’d comforted you in times of need. When you look up to him, his eyes are closed and his hand is again itching to come through the barrier, to touch you. 

“I should return to my chambers,” you say quietly, no conviction in your tone. He opens his eyes again and you swear you can almost feel his arms envelope you. 

“Why did you come at all?” he asks, pulling his forehead away from the barrier to look down at you more fully. You hesitate to answer, pushing back all the lies and excuses your mind conjures in order to find a real reason you’re standing here. 

“Because Loki,” you sigh, giving in. “I missed you.” He gives a soft sigh and a teasing laugh, his other hand coming up to the barrier near your waist. It surprises you how badly you wish to feel his touch on you. 

“Was that so hard, pet?” Your eyes harden and you step away from him, irritated with his teasing. Now you wish to crack your palm over his cheek, a fruitless wish as even if there was no barrier wall, you know you wouldn’t follow through. His smile widens to his wicked one and just like that, you’re back to your more familiar roles. “Now don’t be stubborn, my dear.” He too pushes himself off the barrier wall, to give some more space between you. “You were being so sweet.” 

“Good evening, Loki,” you bid him farewell, taking a couple more steps back before turning to walk away. 

“Will you return?” The hint of concern hidden in his voice stops your feet from continuing. You resist looking back at him however. Did he want you to return? Did _you_ want to return? 

“No.” You can feel him smile behind you at your lie. 


	2. Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You have a discussion about honesty.

You resist for a mere three nights and you hate yourself for not having a stronger will. You pride yourself on being a strong woman. You should have been able to stop yourself. On the other hand, there is nothing _wrong_ with going to visit Loki and if it’s what you want to do, why stop yourself? You use this justification as you pull your robe tighter around you in the dark corridor leading to the cells. The guards, again, say nothing as you pass.

He lays on his cot in the same position as before, reading the same book, but on an earlier page. Rereading it then. Did he enjoy it that much or did he lack options, you wonder. He doesn’t give you much time to ponder it. He shuts the book, without marking a spot this time, and tosses it in a haphazard manner onto his nightstand.

“You are a wonderfully horrible liar, my dear,” he greets, his voice that infuriating shade of smooth. You force your composure and again fold your hands in front of you.

“I thought it cruel to leave you alone,” you tell him calmly. It’s not a lie. Perhaps it’s not the full truth, but a lie it is not. “Even those like you deserve company.” His eyes are amused.

“So noble.” Sarcasm drips from his words so thickly that you’re surprised they did not accompany an eye roll. He pauses in thought, face shifting into something more pensive as he sits up and faces you. “Do you fear me lonely?” You can sense the danger in the seemingly simple question, the dozens of ways he can twist and turn your answer into whatever he deems fit.

“I only know that I would be incredibly lonely if I were locked away,” you tell him. “And I’m not beyond showing you kindness.”

“And what about them?” He sweeps his hand out, motioning to the prison cells behind and around you. “Will you be extending them the same kindness once you’re through here with me?” You feel mocked. You have to stop yourself from bowing your head in belittlement and instead simply cast your eyes down.

“If you wish me not to come, you only need say so.” You cringe at how pathetic and defeated your voice sounds.

“That is not what I said.” He stands from his bed and starts a slow approach to the barrier wall. You continue to look away from him, but the exasperation starts to set in.

“Then perhaps you should say what you mean.” He furrows his brow, stopping in his advance and you snap your eyes to him, annoyed by his play at innocence. “You speak in twists and turns that leave everyone around you guessing at riddles and piecing together puzzles. To make it even more infuriating, you coat it all with charisma and charm. It’s both endearing and vexing.” Your folded hands fall apart and your eyes cast away again. “I just wish for you to speak plainly. To tell me what you want.”

There’s a pause as he considers your words. Another prisoner is snoring somewhere else within the cells and the sound fills your ears. You pinch your eyes closed, hating the way you want nothing more than to smother whoever is making that ridiculously loud noise. You take a deep breath to ease the irritation prickling your skin. This is not what you came for.

“I do not want your kindness,” Loki tells you. Something inside of you crumbles, but you keep your composure. At least you can go to bed now. You resolve to turn and leave, but he keeps speaking. “I do not wish to be another tally mark in your book of good deeds. I do not desire pity.” His voice is cold and composed, carefully concealing a soft, delicate fear. You look back at him, an apology nipping at your tongue. You take a moment to find the right words, to swallow the instinctual apology and find a new course.

“I’m not here out of pity.” You anticipate his next question and rush to find a suitable answer. _Then why are you here?_ Gods, what was the answer?

“I enjoy your company, just as I always have,” he says instead, starting once again to slowly walk towards you. “So I offer you a deal. An agreement.”

“I’m listening.” It’s intriguing and a little terrifying, honestly. What in the worlds does he have up his sleeve?

“You come to me whenever you like. There is only one rule.” He stops in front of the barrier and you’re not entirely sure if you have a desire to step away or step towards him. “Honesty.” Your mind knows it sounds like a deception, a lure to ease into _something_. You just don’t know what. You should not be so captivated. “Our conversations and interactions are to be honest. No trickery.” He motions to himself. “No lies.” He motions to you and the look in his eyes dares you to be offended. You ponder it for a moment, trying to discover his loophole.

“This sounds like a ploy to get me to answer inappropriate questions.” A genuine smile breaks out onto his lips and puts you at ease.

“Saying you do not wish to answer a question or speak about a particular subject is still being honest.” He was correct and in saying so, in allowing you to remove yourself from any conversation you don’t want to be in, he anchors a little more trust from you. “So what do you say, my darling?”

“What do you get out of all of this?” You’re still not fully convinced there’s not a hidden motive behind his alluring demeanor. You want to trust him, feeling that metaphorical pull towards him that’s brought you right here.

“As I said, I enjoy your company.” He shrugs and motions back to his end table. “Drab history books filled with knowledge already known only do so much to cure boredom.” He turns back to you, taking another step closer to the barrier. “The companionship of an old friend is not so undesirable.” Even though he manages to make it sound as least complimentary as possible, there’s a warm happiness that fills you at his admission.

“On that, we can agree.” You give him a friendly smile and for the first time in what feels like a long time, it’s genuine and makes you feel relaxed. You’re only slightly surprised to see he returns it.

“So am I to assume that since you find yourself in enough boredom these past nights to be here with me, that your mother hasn’t managed to marry you off yet?” he inquires, causing a truly amused laugh to bubble out of you.

“Oh but how she’s tried,” you tell him. “The law still remains that she lacks the authority to arrange a marriage without my consent. This hasn’t stopped her from arranging many meetings however.” Loki enjoys the roll of your eyes. “I feel as though I’ve met every available nobleman in Asgard by now.”

“None to your liking?” There’s something that sounds like pleasure in his tone. You consider questioning if he’d be jealous if you had a suitor, but it’s so light and subtle that you’re almost sure you’d imagined it. And even if he would be, Loki’s jealousy is certainly nothing to swoon at.

“None worth marrying,” you say simply. There are many fine men around, some even intriguing and tempting, but none of them had yet proven to be a suitable future husband. It isn’t like you’re actively looking either, but your mother pushes the notion.

“And what of Thor?” You furrow your brow.

“What of him?” Loki gives a tilt with his chin, curious at your confusion.

“Has he not proposed?” He asks so plainly, as though it was an obvious thing. Your jaw hangs agape and you scoff out a laugh at the very idea. His look of confusion remains.

“Thor?” His name is no more than a laugh on your tongue. Loki must be joking, right? The raise in his eyebrows, indicating he’s expecting an answer, says otherwise. “Why in the heavens would he propose to me? He has that Midgardian woman he’s completely infatuated with as much as he tries to deny it.” A dawning of realization washes over his face and he smiles like he would to a child who made a foolish, but humorous error. “What?” you ask exasperatedly, arms crossing over your chest.

“I certainly did not mean to imply any romantic relations between the two of you. That would end mundanely for you at best, disastrous at worst.” He shakes his head, ridding the idea. “As king, Thor does not have the privilege of marrying for any reason besides political. Romance is removed from the equation entirely.”

“And marrying me would be a wise political move?” You feel strange even thinking about being married to Thor. The reason behind it need not matter.

“I didn’t intend on making you queen because you’d look nice on my arm,” he tells you in an even, serious tone before a smirk graces his lips and a sparkle comes to his eye. “Although… you _would_ look good next to me.” You can’t help but smile as you roll your eyes and turn your head away from him. His flirtation feels good. It feels nostalgic even and easily slips you back into old times, makes it so simple to forget everything that’s happened, as though no time has passed. You uncross your arms and relax a little more.

“Perhaps I’d look even finer standing next to Thor,” you tease, shrugging your shoulders.

“Oooh,” he hisses, feigning offense and tilting his head. His smirk doesn’t leave his face. “He does not suit you in nearly the same way.” You turn your head back to look at him with raised eyebrows.

“And yet you suggest I marry him?” His smirk finally settles and he shifts back to his more serious nature as easily as a snake slithers into grass.

“You would make a wonderful queen.” The honesty in his voice is powerful, almost physically so, causing your breath to catch in your throat. “Your intelligence, strength, and kindness intermix in just the right way to make you the perfect candidate. Your duty and moral compass always point you towards the best for the people of Asgard, which is exactly what it needs in a queen.” You’re not sure anyone has ever given you such a high honor of a compliment and he says it as though it’s as obvious as the stars. A blush touches your cheeks and you shift your weight from foot to foot, unsure of a proper way to respond.

“Well,” you falter, blowing out a breath and forcing a laugh. “Wouldn’t that thrill my mother?” He smiles gently at your jest.

“You can consider thrilling your mother as a perk,” he suggests lightly. You chuckle and run a hand through your hair, mussing it slightly just to give yourself something to do other than take another step towards him, which you find yourself doing anyways.

“Well, Loki,” you sigh. “I do believe you’re the only one who has ever had the notion of putting myself on a throne.” There’s a glimmer in his eyes that draws you closer.

“Oh, you don’t know how wrong you are,” he nearly whispers, watching you approach the wall until you’re standing as close as you can without your toes brushing it. In return, he approaches the same. “I confess the idea was not originally mine.” He looks down at you and watches as this time, you’re the first to bring your hand up to the wall. He doesn’t hesitate in placing his own over the image of yours, the need for physical contact bubbling within you both. “But when the current queen puts forth a suggestion for her successor, you listen. And if you’re smart, you tend to find she’s right.”

You can’t prevent the small, sharp gasp that comes from you. Frigga suggested you as queen? It sounds absurd. You do not have much interaction with her and yet she apparently values you enough to suggest such an important role.

Loki watches you carefully, gently as you process his words. He’s quiet, letting you soak it in and doesn’t try to pull you back to him. He notices your eyes drift to your hands and he rotates his on the wall, turning his fingers to the side of your palm as if to hold onto you. You can feel the particles of the barrier vibrating between you as he curls his fingers.

Your focus shifts from thoughts of queens to the feeling of wanting to touch him so badly. You and he were never extremely physical before in your day-to-day, but now that he’s behind a wall, it seems all you want to do is be able to touch him. A part of you still feels as though he’s a ghost, an illusion. If you could feel his solidity in your hands, perhaps that feeling would fade.

“I can see your mind churning, pet,” he says softly, finally breaks your thoughts. You’ve drifted into a bit of a trance and are unsure quite how long you had been simply watching your hands. “What is it you’re thinking about?” You hesitate, unsure of how to answer and how to answer honestly.

“You don’t feel real,” you tell him in a whisper. When you let your eyes leave your hands and look up at him, it feels a foolish thing to have said. He looks very much real behind the yellow flicker of the wall with his eyes examining you so delicately.

“I assure you,” he breathes softly, shifting so he’s nearly pressing against the wall. “I am very much real.”

The prisoner’s snore returns, shaking you from the little, intimate bubble Loki has wrapped you in. There’s a brief look of frustration when you duck your head and lean away from him. Your hand remains on the wall and his fingers instinctively bend as though to hold onto your hand and keep you near.

“It’s late,” you tell him, you voice a little louder and clear. “I should let you get your rest.” He chuckles, but lets his hand fall away from yours.

“I’m in a cell for the rest of my days. Rest is not something I’m short on.” He tilts his head in amusement and steps back, allowing you the strength to do the same. “However, if you’re concerned about the hour, perhaps you visit earlier next time,” he suggests.

“You wish me to stay longer?” Even you’re not sure if you’re teasing him or truly inquiring. He continues to step back, retracting further into his cell towards his cot.

“As I’ve said, your company is not undesirable.” He sits down and reaches for his book, silently dismissing you. “We shall meet again soon, I’m sure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to get access to new chapters early? Join my Patreon! I’m still running a deal in which if you’re the first to sign up, you get a free request written!  
> https://www.patreon.com/user?u=34300343


	3. Part Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’re new to me, you’ll learn this pretty quickly; my updates are SUPER sporadic and I apologize.

You let your fingers dance over the spines of the books kept inside your chambers. You’ve been going over their titles and plots in your head for the better part of your morning which had started a little early. You’d risen just before the sun, sending your request for breakfast to be brought to your room in a few short hours. You need to make a decision before Katerina comes however.

You pull one out from the shelf, an older leather bound book lined with bits of gold. You’ve read it many times. It’s one of your favorites. But would he like it? A romance novel? It was exciting with battles and heroes and villains with depth, but at its heart it is still a romance. You’re running out of time so you finally decide it will do and put it at your desk. You sit down and quickly scribble a note on a page of spare paper to slip into its cover.

As you finish, there’s a knock at the door. You get up to answer the door perhaps a little too quickly as Katerina’s startled look tells you. You greet her with a smile and open your door wide for her.

“Good Morning my Lady,” she says gently, crossing one ankle behind the other to give a small curtsy. You’ve told her time and time again that was not needed, but she seldom listened when you told her to forgo the formalities. They help to keep her quiet, demure appearance alive and keep many away from the truth.

“Katerina,” you call her attention as she enters and places the tray of food on your desk. “I have a favor to request.” You can tell her interest is piqued when you close your door by the small tilt in her head as she raises her eyebrows in response. “You are tasked with bringing Loki his meals, are you not?” You can see the wheels turning in her mind.

“I am,” she confirms, voice still small and innocent. She stands straight up, not a single strand of her amber hair falling out the tight bun she’d put it in.

“I need you to bring him something for me,” you tell her. “With discretion,” you emphasize. Her eyes dart around the room, shoulders stiffening in order to portray an uncomfortable air. You hold in a small chuckle. “Oh come now,” you smile at her as she continues to hold her façade. “This is a very small ask of someone who smuggles as well as you.” She knits her brows together.

“I’m not sure what you mean, my Lady,” she sputters. Honestly, she’s quite good. Not good enough to convince you, but quite good nonetheless.

“I’m not interested in prosecuting you,” you assure her. “Your crimes are nonviolent and quite frankly, minuscule. I’m not concerned with potent herbs and alcohols and love notes passed between nobles.” You can tell she knows that she’s been caught, but she keeps her composure all the same. “I simply ask that when you bring Loki his meal, you give him this as well.” You reach down and pick up the book to hand it to her.

“A book?” Her voice is less timid now that her ruse was up. She takes it and turns it in her hands, looking for some hidden secret to it. “May I ask why you simply don’t deliver this yourself?”

“Deliveries are forbidden to the Prince’s cell, even from Thor himself.” It’s the truth, whether it is a punishment or a precaution you aren’t entirely sure. Even if the rule was not in place, giving gifts to a war criminal would not bode well for you.

“That makes this quite a risk for me.” She holds the book in her hands, close to her body. “As you said, my previous crimes have been of a much smaller nature.” She’s clearly not concerned. The job is simple and fairly easy to complete with little risk of being caught. You know what she’s aiming for and you must admit, you admire her finesse.

“The favor, of course, comes with payment.” You hand her a small satchel of high value coins that had also been resting on your desk. She’s pleased with this and she smiles, opening her robe enough to slip the book inside and under her arm.

“Delivery will be made this morning.” You pass smiles for each other before escorting her back to the door.

“Thank you, Katerina.” She gives another polite curtsy before she retreats into the halls.

\---

You take Loki’s advice tonight on coming to visit him sooner. You tell yourself it’s for his amusement, that he wants you for a longer period of time, but you know the truth is that you’re impatient. You’ve been excited to see him all day. Ever since Katerina left your chambers, all you could think of was going to see Loki. Did he get your book? Did he appreciate it? Did he scoff?

As soon as it’s late enough that the halls are mostly empty, you’re slipping out of your room and swiftly heading towards the prison. The guards still say nothing to you, but you give them a small smile and nod, the need to acknowledge their presence not one you like to ignore.

Loki is at the barrier wall, already waiting for you when you round the corner, his hands neatly placed behind his back. His eyes lift when he sees you, a small smirk already making its way onto his lips.

“You know, I never much cared for breakfast,” he tells you as you manage to hold off on your smile. “It comes at an odd hour and it’s always too sweet.” You have to force yourself not to look over his room, to try to see where he kept the book. Instead, you keep your face neutral as you come closer. “But this morning, there was something a little different to it.”

“Oh?” you feign innocently. His lips quirk up in a small smirk, amused by your game.

“It was arranged in the most careful fashion, practically like artwork with the bowl of oats on a cloth covered platform and the fruit arranged to resemble a flower on a lower level.” He’s at an angle, almost casually leaning his shoulder against the barrier. Eyes looking towards the ceiling, acting like he’s recalling the arrangement. “Curious it was. When I went to investigate, I found someone has been putting our servant girl’s smuggling talents to use.” He brings his hands out from behind his back, your book cradled in one of them.

“I wasn’t aware you were privy to Katerina’s hobby.” It’s where your true source of surprise comes from, the book forgotten for a moment. His smirk widens.

“Do you truly believe you’re the only one who has requested items be brought discreetly to me?” Honestly, you hadn’t considered it before, but no. You suppose you wouldn’t have been the only one. It raises a question about the security of Asgard’s prison, but you tuck it away to worry about later. And if this wasn’t Katerina’s first time sneaking things to Loki, it also means your payment to her was quite over generous. “This was far from my usual deliveries, however.” He looks down at the book and turns it over in his hand. You choose to remain quiet, waiting to gauge his reaction. As he turns it in his palm and flips the cover open, you notice a sliver of colored paper peeking out from the pages; a bookmark, nearly half way through. “A little less dull than your history books,” he reads your brief note aloud. “How thoughtful.” He raises his eyes to you, a sarcastic sparkle reflecting. “Do you think me a romantic?”

“A man full of mystery who speaks in a nearly poetic nature?” you muse, shifting your eyes up to the ceiling in thought. “I think there’s potential for a romantic in you. Romance was not the reason behind it however.”

“You don’t mean to seduce me through books?” he teases. You pull your robe tighter around yourself and scoff at him.

“Hardly.” He snaps the book closed with one hand, holding it by its spine. He lowers the book and folds his other hand over it, letting his arms rest comfortably in front of his body.

“So disappointing.” He smiles lightly and you’re compelled to return the gesture. “So tell me then, what was the reason for this?” His chin tilts down to the book.

“It’s one of my favorites,” you admit. “I thought you might enjoy it.”

“Concerned for my entertainment, are you?” His smirk belittles you and you look away.

“Must you always mock me for trying to be kind?” Your voice is much more timid than you wish it to be. You are a strong woman and yet Loki holds some kind of power over you, making you feel vulnerable. His face suggests the slightest notion of surprise at your hurt.

“Your kindness is… difficult to take at face value.” He does not meet your eyes when you look at him. There is a hardness and hesitation to his tone. Is he regretting his own proposal of honesty already?

“You do not think me genuine?” You attempt not to be offended. “Have I ever given you reason to believe my kindness is meant to be trickery?” Again, you find yourself pulling your robe tighter around yourself.

“No one is kind to monsters,” he states. “And I am but a monster.” His posture is tall and straight; sure of his monstrosity as if it is a badge he wears. Your eyes narrow and though you know it’s hard for others to do, you see through the façade.

“No,” you say plainly. “You are not so easily defined by a single moniker.” His eyes turn cold.

“Did you not see images of Midgard?” His sharp, even tone sends a chill down your spine. It’s so easy to forget that behind his charm and lean body, there’s a powerful and intimidating God underneath. “Were you not at the trial where they listed my crimes, my atrocities, my sins?”

“I saw the images,” you whisper. “But I did not attend your trial.” You were one of the few that did not. It had been a large event in Asgard and while it ended up being closed to the public, the attendance was still quite large and had you wanted, you could have gone. You meant to. You’d dressed for it, but instead had sat on your bed and didn’t get up. You just couldn’t watch. Loki looks surprised at this and his head tilts ever so slightly.

“When I didn’t see your face, I had assumed you were simply hidden away in the back.” It’s your turn to tilt your head questioningly at him.

“You looked for me?” You internally scold yourself for feeling fluttery at the thought.

“Your usual seat was strikingly empty,” he says, shrugging as though it was an afterthought. “It would have been hard not to notice your absence.” A short silence falls between you as he analyzes you. Trying to keep your face a stone, trying not to give him anything to read off of you, you feel stiff and statuesque. “Why did you not attend?” he finally asks.

“Because…” you pause, many excuses bubbling up in you. “I simply didn’t want to.” He instantly tsks his tongue at you.

“Ah-ah,” he chides. “Honesty, remember?” His chin tilts down as he eyes you carefully. You huff, frustrated with yourself or him you’re not entirely sure. You cross your arms over your chest, looking at anything, but him.

“I couldn’t.” It’s the truth, though it still feels like a lie. You continue quickly, knowing he’s going to ask you why anyways. “I wasn’t ready to see you like that. Bound in chains and sentenced for war crimes. It felt like you were someone else.” He glances towards the floor and looks almost shameful.

“But it was me,” he says.

“Why?” Your voice croaks and you take a step towards the barrier. “Why did you do it?” He does not look up at you.

“The same reason I did what I did here,” he says coldly. “I wanted to rule.”

“No,” you tell him, trying to mimic his tone. “The truth,” you demand.

“That is the truth!” he snaps at you, lifting his head so quickly it startles you. There’s something in his eyes, behind the anger, that draws you in. Is it fear? You breathe slowly, choosing your words carefully.

“Then what aren’t you saying?” You’re gentle this time, uncrossing your arms and letting go of your tension, hoping to appear unjudgemental and unconfrontational. He squeezes the book tightly between his fingers.

“I was… unwell,” he says after a time. “The scepter, it has the power to twist things. It can manipulate you and make you see things very differently if you are not careful.” His mouth curls into a disgusted snarl. “In my haste to get what I wanted, I was not careful.” You do not doubt his words. The images you saw of him on Midgard were unsettling; tired, vacant eyes with dark circles around them. Unwell would be an understatement to you.

“Did you tell this to the council?” Surely manipulation and mind control would be grounds for a lesser sentence, would they not? He smiles with no joy and looks at you bitterly.

“To what purpose? My actions were still my own. I could have stepped away, but I did not.” There’s acceptance in his voice, but maybe something else too. Perhaps he felt shame and embarrassment that the great trickster himself was played the fool. Perhaps he held some regret for his actions and wanted punishment. Maybe he didn’t even know what it was that truly kept him from defending himself.

“Perhaps if you had, I’d be able to visit you without this barrier.” You reach out and touch it gently, running your fingers down it and watching the way the yellow chases your fingertips. His face softens.

“Are you implying you wish to touch me?” There’s so many layers to the question that you’re unsure how to answer it. You don’t have a desire to rush into his arms and hug him or hold his hand or even pat him on the back. When you think about it, you have no reason to touch him. And yet, there’s something that pulls you to the wall between the two of you, something that makes you reach out and touch it and wish its existence away.

“It’s not about touch,” you conclude. “It’s about distance. I prefer to be in the same room as the people I’m speaking to. The occasional flicker of the barrier, especially when it happens across your face, just makes you look like an illusion.” Loki steps up and places his fingers over yours. The extra vibration from his touch sends a flutter through you.

“Are you sure there’s no desire to touch?” he teases, not oblivious to your reaction. You look up at him, watch his face when you flatten your palm to the barrier and his follows your actions. His whole body leans in, his weight in his hand as if he could push through the wall. His eyes are on your hand and then drift towards your body.

“Are you asking because you are hoping for a certain answer?” you counter.

“Answering a question with a question is, uncharacteristically, a form of avoidance.” His weight comes off his hand, leaning away but not withdrawing just yet. You hum at him.

“And where do you think I learned that from?” The quirk of his lips suggests a small sense of pride in himself and it makes you release a breath of a laugh. “Regardless of it all,” You let your hand come off of the barrier, the tingle on your palm remaining for a few seconds. “The barrier remains.”

“That it does, for now.” He takes a few steps back before turning away from you and walking towards his bed. While the tag at the end of his sentence has you curious, you would assume that as a dismissal. He continues to speak to you, however. “So tell me of your day.”

“My day?” The request is not anything like you expected.

“Yes.” He places your book on his bedside table and turns back to you, arms open. “I would tell you of mine, but I’m afraid there’s not much to tell.”

“I’m afraid there’s not much to tell of my day either.” The corner of your lips drag down in an apologetic frown as you shrug. “I met with Asgard’s workmen on their progress in repairing the west court gate.” It sounds extremely dull to you, but Loki’s brow furrows in interest.

“What happened to the gate that caused its need for repair?” he asks, sitting himself back onto the edge of his bed. “It’s a sturdy gate and I can’t imagine anyone trying to attack it.” You can’t resist the humored smile on your lips.

“Oh, no, certainly not. Weeks ago Volstagg, drunken of course, ran a mount into it.” You chuckle as Loki’s eyes widen in concern. “The mount was in full armor and completely unharmed,” you assure him. “The gate was quite bent however.”

“I can imagine,” he comments, a hint of an amused smile peeking through. “Well, keep on,” he encourages when you pause in your telling. “Tell me everything. Tell me of your day, of Asgard’s events, of everything.”

You think that he must be very bored as his interest seems genuine. You smile and oblige him, thinking back over the last years for stories he might find intriguing. You stay for over an hour, finding yourself laughing with him over humorous events and pondering over more serious ones. You only take your leave when you run out stories and when your feet start to ache from standing.

“You know it’s rude to sit while your guest cannot,” you chide him teasingly.

“My _guests_ are usually treated to more than just a seat when they visit my chambers,” he assures, his flirtation clear. “But I am lacking the ability to accommodate at the moment.” He points forward, not towards you, but to the barrier.

“I suppose that’s an adequate excuse,” you concede, giving an exaggerated eye roll. You both give a small chuckle before you shift your weight once again and stretch your arms out. “I do believe I’m going to retire though.”

“By all means.” He gives you a wave with his hand, giving a show of shooing you away and then casually leaning back.

“Good evening, Loki.” You tuck your chin in the smallest bow with your head and turn to leave when he calls your name. You look over your shoulder at him.

“Thank you,” he says softly. “For the book. I’ll make sure our resident smuggler gets it back to you shortly.”

“Take your time,” you tell him with a smile. “Enjoy it.” His eyes briefly run down your body.

“Oh, I think I will.”


	4. Part Four

You’ve been away for two nights now. Your work during the day has led to exhaustion in the evenings and while you wonder if Loki misses your visits, if he’s curious as to where you are, by the time you get back to your chambers, you’re too tired to care.

Tonight, you’ve washed yourself and changed into a thin, evening robe, ready to retire your head to the pillow when there’s a soft knock at your door. You sigh and consider quickly covering with a thicker robe, but instead retie the knot at the closure a little tighter and clutch the frail fabric at the neck to make sure it stays in place.

Opening the door, you see Katerina still dressed in her work clothes. She gives you a small curtsy and you notice that her arms stay pressed tightly to her sides as she bows. She remains in the curtsy as she asks quietly, “May I enter, my Lady?” Her hair, undone from her strict bun, veils her eyes from you. “I have a message from the Prince.”

Your stomach flutters with curiosity. Any eavesdropper would assume she was referring to the wrong Prince, but you knew better. You step aside and motion for her to step over the threshold. As she passes by, you briefly let your eyes flit about the halls. There’s no one that you can see, but perhaps this is why Katerina is able to keep herself in stealth. She keeps the formalities and subtleties even when she doesn’t believe she’s being watched. A twinge of admiration for the woman passes through you.

As soon as the door is shut and you turn to her, the formal expression on her face is wiped away, replaced by a look much less tense and more relaxed. She reaches within her robe and pulls your book from where she’d hidden it between her arm and ribs. Her reach is gentle as she hands it to you.

“I apologize,” she says as you take it from her. “He had given it to me yesterday morning, but I’ve been unable to deliver until now.”

“I appreciate it,” you assure her with no interest in questioning her delay in delivery. You aren’t privy to her entire operation, but if there was a delay, you know enough to trust it was necessary. You run your hand over the cover and flip the pages with your thumb. A small piece of paper flutters out of the book and floats to the ground. You see a flash of Loki’s handwriting on it and quickly bend over to scoop it back up as if to hide it from prying eyes.

Katerina gives a polite clearing of her throat before giving a pointed yet cordial, “My lady.” You’re bent over, practically on your knees before a servant, but more than that, you’d let you grip release the collar of your robe and it billowed slightly when you rushed for the note. You gasp and blush as you clamor to readjust and cover your breasts again while attempting to stand.

“I’m so sorry,” you tell her, wishing to bury your embarrassment into a pillow. You feel very foolish. You’d fumbled for the note like a little schoolgirl afraid of being caught passing notes in lessons and having it read aloud. Katerina had plenty of time with it. If she wanted to pry, she would have. There was no need for such a… display. Her lips are pulled tight, retracting a smile at your expense, clearly amused.

“Your privacies are safe with me,” she assures you. “All of them.” She fails at withholding her smile longer and her ease at the situation causes you to laugh at yourself. She chuckles along with you and you rub your face, intending to soothe the blush away.

“Do you require payment for the return?” you inquire as the giggle fade.

“No, my Lady. The Prince took care of that already.”

“Well I do believe I’ve made a fool of myself quite enough for one night, unless there’s anything else?”

“That is all,” she confirms, already walking back to the door.

“Oh, and Katerina?” she pauses with the door half open. “Thank you.” She gives a small smile back to you.

“It’s no trouble, my Lady,” the formal tone back in place the moment she turned the handle. She slips away quietly and leaves you to your room.

You take a single deep breath to calm yourself before bringing the note on top of the cover of the book to read it. His handwriting is the same as it always has been. His letters curl into one another with fluid strokes in a way that still makes it legible.

_Not a bad read. Your Hero is a little too “Captain America” for my tastes, however._

You chuckle, able to hear the coy voice in his words. He was not wrong. The male protagonist of the book is very morally white and while you have not had the pleasure to meet Steve Rogers yourself, you’d gathered through stories that he is also a man driven by morality. You slip the book back onto your bookcase and the note into a desk drawer, more than ready to fall into bed.

\---

You send for an early breakfast again in the morning, making sure to dress yourself properly for the day well before Katerina knocks on your door. You’ve chosen another book for Loki. You haven’t read it more than twice, but it’s well written and the plot focuses more on heavily on a warring conflict, the romance taking a back seat. When you go to write a note, you find yourself out of paper and instead jot your words on one of the first few pages.

_Of course you would prefer a more mischievous character. Try this one. See you tonight._

A promise to see him. The words on the page before you even thought of writing them. Picking your quill up from the book, you hope your day isn’t too tiring.

\---

You’re standing outside one of the battle rings, watching as the warriors train and taking notes on their progress. Some of the new recruits are running a risk of falling behind and you’ve been tasked with reporting back above their commanding officer.

Sif sits down beside you, armor clamoring in a metallic jingle. She puts her sword tip on the ground between her feet and leans her weight on the handle, looking at your curiously. You finish your sentence before looking at her.

“Do you have a date?” she inquires, instantly causing the air to rush from your lungs in something between a laugh and a scoff.

“I most certainly do not!” You look back to your notes, hoping to conceal the heat on your face.

“Well you must have some kind of commitment,” she comments casually, seemingly unfazed by your attempt to brush her off. “The way you’ve been rushing through tasks today? You want the day to be over.”

“Perhaps I simply do not want to work today and as you say, want the day over.” You’re proud that your voice remains even and confident. You draw your shoulders back tall and look at her with a smile. She does not return it yet, but instead squints her eyes carefully.

“Then you’ll come with us tonight to the tavern?” There’s a slight crack in your confidence as she watches you.

“I… I’m afraid I don’t have the energy for social gathering this evening. It has been a long couple of days.” It is a viable excuse and despite the small stutter, you’re satisfied you were able to say it without hesitation. Sif folds her hands on the hilt of her sword and rests her cheek on them, still watching you carefully.

“There is something different about you this last week,” she comments. It is not accusatory, just a simple observation. “You’re… airier,” she says after a moment of contemplation. Her choice of words puts you slightly off balance.

“Do you mean to imply that I float as opposed to walk?” you tease lightly.

“Just simply that you seem to now have a lighter weight on your shoulders than you have recently.” She tilts her chin down with a pointed, but teasing glint in her eye. “Even despite claiming it’s been a long week for you.” You make a point of looking directly at her before giving a small roll of your eyes.

“I do believe you’re just imagining things.” You hope she is, at least. Surely your brief time with Loki hadn’t changed your demeanor, had it? If your demeanor has changed, it simply must be for some other reason.

Sif hums next to you and straightens. “Well, you remember that when you do whatever it is you’re doing tonight when you’re not out with us.”

“Go finish your training,” you tell her with a laugh and a point of your quill in the direction of the ring. She stands with a wide smile and starts to walk away. “And don’t forget your report on the trainees!” you call out for good measure. She doesn’t look back when she gives a dismissive wave over her shoulder, bringing another laugh from you.

\---

You think perhaps you’ve eaten your evening meal a little too quickly as you walk down the corridors towards the prisons. Your belly feels a little bloated and heavy, weighing you down and slowing your pace. You tell yourself that you ate with such haste out of a ravenous hunger stemming from not eating all day and not that it was because you were anxious to visit Loki.

You round the corner towards his cell and notice plain, black, metal chair in front of his barrier. It’s the kind you’ve seen in the servant’s halls. The seat faces his cell and as your curious eyes travel, they meet his, sitting in his own chair by the barrier. His chair is much more regal with golden cushions and a wooden structure. He must have drug it from his small dining table in his cell to place it facing yours. He puts his hands in front of him in a display of innocence.

“It wasn’t I,” he insists. “That is courtesy of the evening guard, Decimus.” You instinctively look towards the prison doors and your furrowed brow makes it clear you don’t know which one he is. “He’s the one at the front of the prison. Large fellow, but polite. He brought the chair out at the start of his shift and retrieved it at the end last night. It appears he’s done the same thing tonight.”

It is a very nice gesture, but your worry overpowers your thankfulness. You’ve become noticed. Sif knows something is different. A prison guard prepares for your visits. What will people think when the gossip spreads?

“Are you ashamed?” Loki asks, reading the expression on your face with ease.

“No! I just…” you falter for words. Shame and regret are not among your feelings, but you struggle to place words to your anxiety.

“There is no punishment for visiting prisoners, even one such as myself,” he attempts to soothe. “You can stop if you wish.” His tone is even, uncaring, but you catch the way his eyes shift ever so slightly; a worry that you’ll listen and accept his suggestion. The desire to comfort him, to embrace him in reassurance makes you stand tall once more.

“I do not wish to stop seeing you,” you tell him boldly. You sit yourself down in the chair, throwing one of your knees over the other and folding your hands on top of it, sharp angles and straight backed to make a point. His lips curl into a smile. After a moment, you relax your rigid body and sigh. “I just know while it’s not punishable, it would be looked down upon.” You look down at your folded hands.

“Does it bother you?” He leans back casually in his seat.

“It bothers me that I would be seen as frivolous and weak for enjoying the company of a man I’ve know the entirety of my life.” There’s a bitterness in your voice. “I can only imagine how quickly rumors would spread of how you’ve corrupted me and that I’m helping to stage your escape from this cell.” He nods slowly and rubs his chin with his fingertips.

“Cut the beast off at its head,” he says. You tilt your head questioningly, encouraging elaboration which he obliges to. “Inform your higher _council_ ,” he spits the word like a bad apple. “That you’ve taken it upon yourself to speak to me in an attempt to get me to tell you about the hidden entrances in and out of Asgard.” Your eyes widen in response to his suggestion. “You must know by now that I never did put forth my information to them. Call it an interrogation. You hope your kindness and gentle heart will appeal to my kinder nature, if there is such a thing.” There’s a roll of his eyes as though he find the notion preposterous. You consider the idea for a moment.

“Eventually, I would be expected to give some sort of information back to them or they would insist on an end to my visits, deeming them pointless and unnecessary.” Loki gives a flippant wave of his hand.

“I can give you stray information that would have them chasing stars for months.” You have to admit; it could work. Considering it more than you intend to, a thought comes to mind and makes you chuckle.

“In an attempt to stop rumors about being corrupted by you, I simply conspire with you to cover it up,” you muse. How absolutely absurd it sounded. A wide, amused smile spreads on his lips.

“All just so you can come visit an old friend.” His words are meant in jest, in a way to suggest he held such an aura of importance to you that you’d lie and conspire just to keep up your visits. Instead, the words fuel a flame of stubbornness and defiance deep inside of you. Your humor fades and you watch Loki carefully.

“I will not lie,” you state surely. He raises a brow at your change in tone. “I’m not going to let the possibility of a rumor dictate what I do. I have earned my title and my place here. My friends and colleagues should not see my desire to speak to a friend as weakness or treason. It is not my fault nor my problem that they are so quick to cast you aside while I am not. I will not lie to conceal compassion.”

“That is a bold choice, my sweet.” A small amount of admiration adorns his words. “One you may come to regret when the questioning comes. Just know, I will not take offense if you change your mind. I’ll play whatever part you tell.” He leans forward in his chair, elbows resting on his knees.

“It won’t be necessary,” you assure. He gives a single nod, a silent understanding. You appreciate his kindness, his offer to do as you please in order to spare your status. Does he care for you, you wonder? It is difficult to see an ulterior motive to such an agreement. His lips twist up arrogantly.

“So I am your friend now, am I?” His teasing tone causes a roll of your eyes.

“Oh close your mouth, Loki,” you scoff while refraining a laugh to match his own rolling chuckle. Of course he is your friend, despite your previous angry attempts to deny such a claim. What other word there be for him?

“Ahh, one of my few pleasures in this cell,” he says quietly, almost to himself rather than to you. A light smile still on your face, you squint your eyes at him.

“What’s that?” As soon as his smirk dirties, you realize he’s baited you.

“The sound of my name on your tongue.” You would laugh at him, tell him to cease in the gluttonous flirtation, but there’s something in his voice, something weighted and true, that stops you. His eyes don’t trail over your body, don’t dip down to your crossed legs. Instead, they stay trained on your face, his body still as a predator. Except somehow, with that simple eight word sentence, he’s made _you_ feel like the predator, as though you hold his fate in your hands. “Say it again.” A plea masquerading as a demand. You chew your tongue, contemplating playing his game or not.

“And why would I do that?” Why does it feel so dangerous? Why are the dozens of ways you could say his name start flooding your mind? Why does it make your body flush to consider obliging him?

“Do you not wish to bring your friend pleasure?” he says it so innocently, yet the flicker in his eyes is anything but. He’s still leaning forward on his elbows, his gaze set intently on you.

“I do not believe friends _pleasure_ each other,” you tell him, impressed with yourself for keeping your tone steady even when you can feel the warm, very unsteady vibration under your skin. Testing your limits, you slowly uncross your knees. You keep your legs parted and while your trousers don’t allow for any kind of wardrobe mishap, Loki’s eyes glide over your legs as if they are bare before him.

‘Then perhaps I do not wish to be your friend.” His eyes don’t move from your legs, voice dipping down lower. You straighten your spine to suppress a shiver.

“It is unfortunate for you then that you’re not in any position to make that decision.” You squeeze your thighs together, closing the suggestive gap and giving yourself a slight bit of friction. “You don’t have much to offer me besides friendship.” It’s less of a statement to him and more of a reminder to yourself. _Don’t get involved,_ you think. _This is foolish and desperate and not worth the effort. Cease. Now._ A wicked smile graces his face.

“There is so much I can offer you, even from behind these walls.” He stands slowly from his chair and approaches the barrier. You press your feet into the ground, willing yourself not to follow. “Companionship, depth, pleasure. They can all be had without touch, my pet.” It’s the endearment that breaks the spell for you. The way it heats your core, the way it makes you want to lose your senses, the way he says it delicately and yet says it as if he’s above you, it all stirs the defiance in you.

“If I have need of such things, I’ll be sure to seek them out elsewhere.” The ice in your words doesn’t cut through the heat of his stare, but it forces a change in direction which was its intended purpose.

“You can do as you wish,” he says, the smile still there. “You always do.” His posture shifts. His shoulders release a tension and his stance relaxes. “So tell me,” The darkness in his voice is gone as quick as it arrived. “What have you been doing these last couple of days? What has kept you away?” His change in conversation allows you to ease. You lean back in your chair and groan slightly.

“Just regular day to day tasks.”

“Well, come on,” he encourages, spreading his arms. “Tell me about them.”

He listens patiently and intently as you find yourself delving into petty complaints about the minor inconveniences you’ve come across the last few days that have added up. You’re not sure if it’s because he’s quite unable to escape or because he actually finds some enjoyment out of your conversation, but he indulges you. He lets you speak and run yourself into tangents when you so wish and offers advice and words of encouragement when prompted. Either way, it provides a cathartic effect and leaves you feeling just as airy as Sif seems to think you look.

“Oh!” you say suddenly, remembering this morning. “Did you get your new book?” He smiles at your eagerness as he points behind himself.

“I did. It currently resides beneath my pillow. I’ve quite enjoyed it so far.” He’s back in his chair, leaning back in a more casual way than you’ve ever seen him in before. “I’m half way through it currently.”

“Stars!” you curse. “At this rate, you will read through my entire bookshelf in no time!” The genuine smile of his widens.

“I look forward to it.” There’s a lull in which your tired eyes start to glaze over, looking towards him but not necessarily at him. “It is late,” he says. “You should start back to your chambers.”

“I suppose you are right,” you concede. Placing your hands on the the edge of the seat, you push yourself to a stand and stretch yourself up tall. “I will see you soon, I am sure.”

“One can only hope.” He doesn’t stand and this time, it’s you that approaches the barrier. Your fingertips brush the yellowing surface lazily, hand still hanging down near your waist. He watches the glittering of the wall and there’s the smallest reflection of desire in his eyes.

“Good evening,” you pause, readjusting your tone is a lower caliber. “Loki.” You drawl his name deliberately with a tempting smirk. His fingers curl into the plush fabric of his armrests and he stiffens in an almost minuscule way.

“Sleep sweet, my pet.”

As you exit the prison, you stop to see the guard. He stands tall and wide, resembling a stone statue. A golden helmet masks most of his face, but you see his eyes dart down to you when you stand in front of him.

“Decimus?” you inquire politely.

“My lady,” he acknowledges in a deep voice, still unmoving. His position as the nighttime guard seems fitting for such an intimidating man.

“I thank you for the chair,” you tell him with a cordial bow of your head.

“It is no trouble to me.” You offer a smile, but he does not return it. You bid him a farewell and turn to make your retreat when he speaks once more. “The Prince is much less irritable on nights you visit.” When you look over your shoulder, his eyes are looking straight ahead, as if he doesn’t see you. You give a short nod of your head, unsure of how to respond.

You walk slowly back to your chambers, contemplating Decimus’ words the entire way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading darling! If you’ve enjoyed, I ask that you give kudos, comment, or if you’re really feeling generous, buy me a coffee! Ko-fi.com/writerashley
> 
> Also, please let me know if you like/dislike the scenes with other characters or if you’re just here for the Loki stuff!


	5. Part Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm slow to update, I know! I know! But I'm alive and here is another part. Enjoy my darlings!

Flowers in hand, you knock on the large wooden door of your mother’s home. It’s a quaint little cottage in one of the nearby villages. She had moved into it shortly after your father passed despite still being offered a place in the palace. While you missed seeing her daily, it didn’t surprise you that she declined and ventured into her own little home. The quiet, common life simultaneously suited her while making her feel important.

“My daughter!” she greets warmly as she opens the door. Her once golden hair, now slowly melting into white, is tied into an elegant braid draped over the front of her shoulder. “What brings you by?” she asks as though you don’t visit her the same time every week. You smile anyways as she pulls you into a hug which you return. “So beautiful!” She takes the bundle of flowers from your hands. “Come in! I have tea almost ready.” Her robe is a dull, dirty beige color and it always humors you how even with the extravagant and expensive silk robes in her closet, she chooses the most drab clothing for her daily life.

“Mother, you don’t even like tea,” you laugh.

“Ah, but you do!” she points her finger at you and then shuffles you to the table. “So,” she sighs happily as she puts the flowers in an already prepared vase in the center of lace table cloth. “What have you been up to?” You sit as she disappears behind a doorway to her kitchen where you hear her bothering with the tea pot and cups. She comes back quickly and arranges the dishes neatly on the table.

“Just work, Mother.” You know she’s going to ignore your tone. It clearly portrays that you know the real question she’s asking, the one she’s about to ask directly, and that you have no interest in answering. She’s going to ask anyways. It’s what she does. According to her, it’s what every good mother does.

“Not seeing anyone special?” The expected question causes an unexpected squeeze in your ribcage, but you manage to hide it well.

“No, Mother.” You use the same drawn out, placating tone you always use and reach for a tea cup.

“Shame,” she hums, passing you the honey.

“How’s your garden doing?” you ask quickly before she can press further. “It looks like it’s thriving.” She throws a look over her shoulder at the window as if to peer out at it.

“It’s doing well. The children are taking very good care of it.” You smile warmly at her. For all her faults, the woman has always been generous. She regularly pays young children to tend her garden and then usually gives away most of the produce. “The little one, Alistair, he’s quite dedicated.” You sip your tea and nod. “You know, his father is Lord Devereux.” She raises a brow at you and you sigh, setting your tea back down, already sensing where this is going. “Lord Devereux’s eldest son is of age now.” She pauses for merely a moment. “He would make a fine suitor.”

“Mother!” you exclaim, not sure if you’re irritated or amused at this point. “His son is _much_ younger than I!”

“Yes, but he’s of age! And a younger man will certainly ensure he’ll be around long enough to take care of you.” She leans back in her chair and crossing her legs, shrugging. “Plus… think of his stamina.” Your eyes widen and if you’d had tea in your mouth, your sputtering would have sent it all over her table.

“ _Mother!_ ” She laughs at your outburst and picks dust from the lace cloth.

“Oh, come now!” She always manages to scold you with a smile on her face. “You should at least meet with the boy.”

“The very fact that you’ve referred to him as a boy leads me to believe I should do no such thing.” The woman is relentless and perhaps a little delusional, but she never fails to makes you laugh at the insanity she brings forth.

“When was the last time you were out with a suitor?” she pries. You squint your eyes and look upwards as though thinking deeply.

“Well,” you ponder. “It was roughly two days after the last feast.” Her eyes widen with intrigue and she leans forward.

“Really? With whom?” Her genuine excitement causes laughter to bubble within you.

“Warrior Patrick! You arranged a dinner!”

“Oh,” she shies away with a smile.

“Perhaps you should stop trying to arrange suitors if you’re forgetting every match you’ve tried to make.” You go back to drinking your tea and watch her fluster.

“I wouldn’t have to make so many matches if you weren’t so stubborn.” She sits back with a huff. “You must have gotten that from your father.”

“Obviously, because you clearly still have yours.” You both take a moment and crumble into laughter at one another. When the giggles subside, she reaches across the table for your hand and you allow her to take it.

“Oh my daughter,” she sighs. “I just want to make sure that before I pass, I know you’re going to be taken care of.” You open your mouth to retort, but she stops you. “I want you to have more than I did. I want you to marry wealthy and have not a care in the galaxy. I want my grandkids to grow up lavishly.” Her fingers rub gently over your hand and when she looks up at you, her eyes glisten with the threat of tears. “I want you to be more than okay.” Your heart softens and you place your other hand over hers.

“Mother,” You squeeze her hand. “Rushing me off into the arms of the man with the wealthiest pockets isn’t going to make me okay. I want more than riches and gold gowns. I want love, passion, a man who makes me feel something other than obligation. And _if_ I’m to have children, I want their father to be a man on honor.” You give a small smile and roll your eyes. “Half the noblemen are barely fit to be a good husband, let alone a good father.” She pats underneath her eyes with the pads of her free fingers, dabbing away at any stray tears that may have fallen. “When I find a man, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Well I’d better!” She smiles and retracts her hand. “And I refuse to die until I see you married. Though I suppose if you chose a middle class gentlemen, that would be alright too.” You manage to withhold your eye roll but let you smile out. “Better than some of the women in this village, pining after downright criminals!” She narrows her eyes in disgust and shakes her head, but you find your breath caught in your throat again.

“Yes well, no pining for criminals here.” Did your voice waver? You aren’t certain. If it had, your mother shows no signs of noticing, for which you are very grateful. She starts prattling on about how some of the women talk and some of their men. You choose to stay quiet and finish your tea. Best not to risk any more oddities in your untrustworthy voice.

—

“You seem tense,” Loki observes. You’ve been sitting in the chair Decimus provided for quite some time now, but your body has yet to relax into it. Before you can deny it, he continues. “As long as your habits haven’t changed, I would assume you’ve visited your mother this morning.” You scoff at your own predictability. “What did dear Penelope do now?”

“You know she would have you hanged if she heard you address her like that?” You raise an eyebrow at him, but can’t quite muster the energy to hide your amusement.

“Well, lucky for me then that I’m not high on her list of visits to make.” He leans forward in his own chair which has been pushed further towards the barrier tonight. “So what did our _Madam Healer_ do now?” You give a short roll of your eyes.

“Nothing new. She’s still trying to marry me off to the highest bidder.” He grimaces and you realize your words are perhaps a bit harsher than they should have been. “She means well,” you defend. “She just doesn’t quite understand there’s more to my happiness than a title and wealth.” Another sharp roll of your eyes and a hard, bitter stare at the nearest wall. “Stars forbid I ever get involved with someone less than well off and apparently it would be an utter disgrace to marry a criminal.” You’d learned she is quite quick to harshly judge those men who may not have followed the law to the letter. The thought of her bittiness towards them angers you.

“Was that a proposal?” Loki teases after a short silence. It takes you a moment you put together his question with your statement and your eyes widen, suddenly in a panic.

“Of course not!” You feel heat rise into your face as he bares his teeth in a wide smile. “I would not propose to you!” He shrugs.

“Well if you’re expecting one from myself, I regret to inform you I don’t have access to a selection of fine jewelry from my current state.” Deciding to let yourself relax and simply play along, your fold your hands in your lap and finally lean back.

“Well I suppose you’ll just have to make me a ring out of the paper from my books you borrow, won’t you?” He crinkles his nose up at you.

“A ring?” Shaking his head, he leans forward, his elbows on his knees. “My darling, a bride of mine would have a crown.” He turns to look over his shoulder at his bed where the latest book is hidden. “In fact, I may have to tear up more than one of your books to make a proper piece.”

“Don’t you dare ruin a single of my books.” You point your finger at him, breaking the playful ruse to make sure he wouldn’t actually do such a thing. Some of those you lend are rare! His smile snaps off his face and he holds up his hands.

“I would never,” he promises before breaking back into a smile again. The air settles and you try to relax your body into the hard metal of the chair. You are not successful. Something about your visit with your mother just has strings of your muscles tense and on edge. You roll your shoulders back and Loki watches you with a look of consideration. He seems to make a decision and lifts his chin. “Close your eyes.” You do no such thing.

“What?” You most certainly need more information before obliging his wish. He sighs with a slight impatience.

“Close your eyes,” he repeats. You still do not do as he says. “What do you think I am going to do from in here?” he questions, sensing your uneasiness. “Trust me.”

Trust him? It’s a large thing to ask and yet he commands it so casually. You force yourself to think about it, to mull it over in your mind despite the fact that your first instinct is to do just as asks; trust him.

In the end, with one more curious and unsure glance his way, you let your eyes close and envelope you in darkness. You’re aware, firstly, of where the light sources make the black behind your lids just the slightest bit brighter. The lantern on the wall off to your left. The dull light from his cell. The flicker of barrier wall in front of you.

“Good,” he coos, his voice washing over you. “Let your mind relax and just listen.” A part of you holds a suspicion and wants to open your eyes, but you push it back. “Imagine you’re in your chambers. Warm. Safe. Plush.” You let yourself imagine a small fire underneath your mantle at night, the shadow of the flames dancing along your walls. It’s a comforting image. “You sit on your bed, the blankets thick and soft beneath you.” In your mind you wear short pants cut off mid-thigh so that you can feel the lush fur of your favorite blanket against your legs as you climb atop the bed. “A man is with you, sitting behind you. Hands come to your shoulders, squeezing softly.” The mention of a man threatens to ruin your peace, but his words continue to ease you into relaxation. “He runs his fingertips down your arms, so feather-light it sends small chills through you.” Your body tenses to suppress a real shiver at just the prospect of the sensation. “Fingers glide back up and thumbs press into the space between your neck and your shoulders, kneading there, pushing at your tension, battling it. Slender fingers that hold strength. When the knots break, his thumbs slip down your spine, fingers gliding along the smoothness of your bare back.” You’re mutedly aware of a flicker of light in front of your eyes. The barrier, perhaps? Has he touched it? Lost in the fantasy of the massage Loki is telling, you don’t dare open your eyes to find out. “Fingers back up to your neck, rubbing, pressing. Harder in your tense areas, lighter and softer at your more tender. You can feel his breath at your ear as he eases your tension.”

His words work wonders. Your head even lolls to the side as though leaning into someone or giving someone access. You let out a long, audible sigh and then suddenly it doesn’t feel so imagined anymore. You feel the physical sensation of cool fingertips at the juncture of your neck contrasted with warm breath at the back of your ear. Cold dread plummets down your body and your eyes snap open, your hand darting to your shoulder only to find nothing there. You look back at Loki and he’s not at the barrier as you had thought, but still sitting in his chair. He raises a single brow.

“What did you do?” you question, suddenly slightly out of breath.

“What do you mean?” His voice lacks the coy nature you expected. “I was helping you to relax.”

“Yes, but how did you…” Confused, you turn in your chair to look around. There’s no one in sight, not that you had thought there would be. You narrow your eyes back to him before considering the barrier. You analyze it from your seat, looking for any sort of damage or crack or any kind of vulnerability at all, but can see none. “I thought your magic is contained to your cell, that it can’t reach outside of the walls.”

“It is.” He squints and you can’t tell if he’s genuinely confused or if he’s simply playing you.

“Then how did I feel your hands on me?” There’s the smallest smirk playing at his lips.

“Is that who you were imagining? Were they my hands caressing your skin?” You tighten your robe around yourself and cross your arms, but do not answer. “Words and the mind are powerful things. Perhaps you simply felt what you wanted to feel.” He leans back in his armchair so comfortably. Was he right? He had vowed no trickery for your visits.

“If my mind is playing tricks on me, then I believe that’s a sign it’s time for me to retire.” You can’t seem to decide if you believe him or not, but it makes for an easy and safe exit. Going to bed and sleeping isn’t a bad idea at all right now.

“Then off you go,” he waves at you. “Perhaps your mind will add onto that little scenario as you drift off,” he suggests. “You’ll have to let me know how that little fantasy ends.” His little smirk widens as you turn away. Normally, you’d have a quick retort to throw back at him, but this time you can do nothing more than simply leave. Your body and mind are just a little too unstable, already missing the invisible contact of his touch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading darling! If you’ve enjoyed, I ask that you give kudos, comment, or if you’re really feeling generous, buy me a coffee! https://ko-fi.com/writerashley
> 
> Keep up with my progress on Instagram! You'll get to see excepts of upcoming works, writing inspiration, random photos of me, and moodboards! https://www.instagram.com/thatfandomwriter/


	6. Part Six

_Why is it all the romance in these is always so tame?_ is the note he leaves in your latest book when he returns it. He isn’t wrong, necessarily. While you’ve always considered the romance in the novels steamy, you must admit it is in a more subtle fashion. You chew on your lower lip and glance to your bookshelf, thinking about one in particular; the one hidden behind the others in a plain, unmarked cover. It is very… erotic.

You’d purchased it from a little shop outside the village and done so in cloak and shadows. You only read it on nights when you can curl up into your bed completely uninterrupted and preferably if you don’t need to be awake early the next morning. It may not be the most eloquently written piece of literature, but it gets the job done, as the saying goes.

No one else even knows you own such a novel and here you are, actually playing with the idea of sending it to Loki. If he wants untamed romance, it’s sitting right there. But, no. That would be too much, wouldn’t it? Even if it was to just poke fun at his question? No, you couldn’t do it. Something about giving him that book feels too intimate, too brash.

You put his note inside your desk drawer, amongst his others, and return the book to your shelf. You run your fingers along the spines of your other novels, trying to find one that might suit his fancy. He’s already gone through most of your collection. Perhaps a different genre? Would a murder mystery intrigue him or bore him? Loki gives off the impression of being someone to figure out who the killer is within the first few chapters and be bored or irritated the rest of the way through.

As you stand there, contemplating what you’re going to do once you have no more books to share, you find your hand reaching up and ghosting over your shoulder. You’re still so unsure about him. Loki holds tight to the stance that he did not do anything, but you could have _sworn_ you felt his hands upon you. You keep your focus on your uncertainty so that you don’t contemplate the more pressing and more concerning question; _why did you want to feel it again?_

A knock on your door startles you and you jump back from your bookshelf. Checking yourself in your looking glass quickly, you right the collar of your top before moving to answer your door. A servant stands on the other side, head already bowed and holding out a large clothing box that rests on his forearms.

“Your garments for the feast tonight,” he tells you, snapping you out of your initial confusion. You had honestly forgotten about the feast, mind preoccupied with so many other things.

“Thank you.” You take the box from him and with one more bow, he proceeds down the hall. You wish the servants weren’t so formal with you. It makes you feel strange to have such little interaction with them. As you step back into your room, you make a mental note to perhaps schedule some kind of meal with them.

You put the box on your bed and gently remove the top, looking for the note your mother inevitably put inside. She always insists on you having new robes and gowns for feasts and parties. She claims it’s only proper and when she realized you weren’t going to get new clothes yourself, she started sending them to you instead.

With no note on top, you pick up the garment, shaking it out to full length in front of you. It looks tailored to your build, as always, but the style doesn’t quite fit what your mother usually sends. You are used to golds and silvers, sometimes yellows and reds made of shiny silk and satin; all colors and fabrics she sees fit for a royal to wear.

The dress in your hands is velvet dyed a deep but vibrant green. It’s slim, only flaring out at the bottom towards the ankles with a small slit at the bottom. The sleeves will reach three quarters down your arms, no poofing at the shoulders. The neckline is steeper than you’re used to, but it doesn’t look distasteful. When you turn it around, you notice it has a low cut in back as well. It’s quite striking.

You admire it for another moment before looking back inside the box for the note to explain the change in taste. Instead, you only find the thin, delicate wrapping paper and an empty box. You shake out the dress once more to make such nothing stuck to it and then lay it out on your bed to shake out the box. There is definitely no note.

“Odd,” you say to yourself, squinting at the dress. It’s really unlike your mother to not leave a note. You shrug it off however, seeing as how it’s not the oddest thing your mother has done before. You make sure to hang the dress as to not wrinkle it until this evening.

—

The dress is even more striking on your body than it was on its hanger. You smooth your hands over the bodice of it as you watch yourself in the looking glass. You dare say you look quite lovely in it. You adorn your neck with a silver chain necklace you’d received as a birthday gift a few years ago and do your hair into your favorite style for these occasions. While the low cut back does make you feel quite a bit more exposed than normal, the entire air of the gown gives you a boost of confidence to wear it proudly. Slipping on your shoes, you make your way to the feast.

The grand hall to the formal dining room is filled with people and noise as you enter. Few people turn to look at you as you enter, just one person in a crowd. Your eyes scan the hall as you walk through, looking for a friendly face to approach.

You always hate large gatherings like these simply because it puts pressure on you to find someone to socialize with. Standing on the wall and observing, as you would prefer most days, is unbecoming and sometimes seen as rude. While most of the faces here are familiar, there are few you’d fancy speaking to. This leaves you walking down the middle of the hall, searching for any such person and as you walk through the center of so many people, you feel as though you notice more heads turn your way. You ignore it and continue on your way until you see Thor, Sif, and The Warrior’s Three near the entrance door.

Sif notices you first and she does the smallest double take in the midst of their laughter before giving you a sly look from the corner of her eye that you don’t quite understand. You wear a casual smile as you approach them and make yourself known.

“Evening all,” you greet, turning their eyes to you. “I trust everyone is behaving thus far?” You catch a slight widening of Thor’s eyes as his face freezes in place for no more than half a second.

“Now what fun would that be?” Volstagg bellows, taking a drink from the tankard of mead already in his hand. When his eyes fall upon you, the drink is spluttered back into its cup as he roughly coughs out a formal, “My lady.” Fandral claps him on the back to aid clearing his lungs as they all laugh.

“I believe that was meant to imply he likes your outfit tonight,” Sif teases. You shift uncomfortably and give a shy smile, suddenly unable to ignore that feeling of everyone looking at you. “He’s just not articulate enough to say so.”

“You do look quite lovely tonight,” Hogun confirms in a much softer and kinder tone. Sif swiftly links her arm into yours and pulls you close to her side.

“She looks lovely every night,” she says firmly. “You buffoons just never notice a woman unless a certain amount of skin is showing.” You can’t help the small smile on your lips as all four men start blabbering excuses. “If you’ll excuse us,” she interrupts. “Us women have better things to attend to than you gentlemen.” She pulls you away by your arm and you give a little cheeky wave to the boys as she whisks you away, feeling much more confident and less embarrassed.

“You always know just how to handle them,” you compliment her as she walks you off to a quieter corner.

“You say that as if you haven’t put them in their place yourself before.” She unlinks your arms and swipes some drinks off of a passing server’s tray.

“Never with quite the finesse you use.” You take one of the drinks from her and clink them together before each taking a swallow. “I haven’t been around as much as I used to.”

“You’ve become quite the busy woman,” she agrees. “There’s been some curiosity about who you’ve been spending your time with.” She peers at you from over her drink and your mouth drops open.

“No one!” you protest. Her eyes drop to your gown.

“Are you quite sure?” A coy smile is on her lips when she lowers her drink. “That dress _is_ quite a statement piece.”

“You know my mother always picks out my formalwear,” you chastise her. Sif huffs a laugh.

“That does not look like your mother’s doing.” Before you can argue, there’s a hand on your shoulder and your mother is sweeping into the conversation herself.

“Oh I know, but the shop keeper talked me into it at the last moment,” she explains, slipping her hand down to yours and guiding your arm out to the side to admire you. “It certainly is bold, isn’t it? A little change is good.” She lowers her arm and smiles proudly. “Can’t have you dressing like an old maiden now, can we?”

“Mother, a simple change of wardrobe isn’t going to suddenly marry me off.” She shrugs, brushing off your scolding and smiles at Sif who passes you an apologetic look.

“And you look dashing as always, Lady Sif,” she compliments. Sif nods her head in muted gratitude. “Come now, we must find our seats.” Your mother links her arm in yours and for the second time this evening, you’re pulled away.

—

The meal itself, filled with loud commotion over casual conversation, passes quickly. The food is, as always, plentiful and delicious if not a little extravagant. Drink flows easily among the tables, sometimes a little too literally as clumsy hands spill it across the table cloth. You are among one of the firsts to stand and make your way to slightly less crowded and loud sections of the halls.

You venture out towards the gardens where only a few stray people have wandered to yet. The open back of your dress sends a slight chill down your spine, but the longer you stay outside, the less you feel it. You lean your arms on a fence railing and slowly inhale the aroma of the surrounding flowers.

“My lady,” a timid voice says from behind you. You look over your shoulder to see a lad dressed in formal guard’s wear and looking at you with a young face. “I am Fazil Devereux.” He offers you a bow and your body tenses in preparation for what you expect to be an awkward conversation with whom you assume to be Lord Devereux’s eldest son. “I am hoping to steal away a little of your time this evening.”

“That’s very kind of you,” you say gently and formally. “I am, however, quite tired and should retire for the evening.” He gives you an unexpected smile.

“Your mother told me you may decline at first.” You have a hard time keeping a polite look on your face. “I won’t be dissuaded so easily.” His voice is full of young confidence, the kind that tries too hard to be real. The poor lad is trying to be bold in an effort to be attractive and, unfortunately for him, failing.

“Fazil,” you start, ready to change to a sharper tactic if he doesn’t ease soon. You use his name instead of his title, removing your obligated politeness and formality to the interaction. “I don’t think you-”

“There you are!” Thor’s voice booms, interrupting your rejection. He’s besides you in no more than two steps, a hand gently at your elbow. He makes a show of noticing Fazil in front of you, as if he hadn’t seen him prior. “Apologies for the intrusion my good fellow,” His voice is quite loud and you recognize it as his show voice. “I have things I must discuss with my advisor.” There’s a small mixture of fear in the disappointment in Fazil’s eyes as he bows his head.

“Of course, sire.” He looks back to you. “Another time then perhaps.” You give him a clearly forced smile, though you doubt he notices the difference. Once he’s out of earshot, you turn to Thor.

“Thank you,” you whisper with a slight laugh. He smiles warmly down at you and leans against the railing himself.

“It was not a problem. I know a thing or two about unwanted pressures to find a partner.” You turn and lean back down onto the fence again, sighing.

“Yes, but I’m sure your pressures are greater.” You would never dare to think your woes equal to those of the will-be-king.

“Unwanted advances are unwanted advances,” he says. “Comparisons are not needed.” Your lips tilt up softly. Sometimes you forget how kind and even wise Thor can be. He’s grown quite a lot from the boy he used to be. It’s admirable. “You do look very beautiful tonight,” he tells you carefully. “You drew the eye of many men and women.” You begin to feel your face heat. It was not your intention to draw any eyes at all, but it does fill you with a touch more confidence, if you’re honest. Thor looks at the dress again. “It’s a good color on you, which is ironic,” he laughs, looking out whimsically over the flowers.

“Why is that?” you question. His smile is contagious.

“That is my brother’s signature color.” The smile drops from your face. “I must admit he wore it well, but I do dare to say you wear it better than he ever did.” You stick the smile back onto your face when he turns to look at you, fully entertained by his own musings, but he still sees the unease in your eyes. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes,” You nod. “I just got a chill is all.” The lie swallows easily and Thor lifts his hand to his neck to unbutton the thick cape he adorns.

“Here.” Ever the gentleman, he sweeps his cape off of his shoulders and onto your own even as you politely protest. He steps closer to fasten the button at the front of your neck carefully before fanning the fabric around your body. His hands land on your shoulders and linger, giving you a short squeeze.

“Thank you.” You must admit that it does help the chill and with your back and the dress now covered, you’re breathing a breath of relief all of a sudden. “I don’t believe I’ll be staying much longer though.” Thor gives your shoulders one more squeeze.

“Then you may return it on another day.” He lets his hands fall from you and steps back, still smiling. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.” With one more nod from the both of you and a smile over his shoulder as he departs, Thor leaves you to your thoughts.

You linger for barely a minute before your feet are whisking you away in such a hurry that you don’t notice how the garden has filled with more people.

—

“My Lady,” Decimus greets in surprise. “I was not expecting you tonight with the feast.” He straightens and moves to leave his post. “I will retrieve a chair for you.”

“There’s no need,” you assure him, holding out your hand to stop him before passing by. “I won’t be staying long.” Your feet carry you quite quickly to Loki’s cell.

“Well, well, well,” he hums from his spot on his bed as he sees you round the corner. “This is a pleasant surprise.”

“Was this you?” you ask hurriedly as you poke your arms out through the edges at the front of the cape, showing the sleeves of the dress.

“Honestly, I didn’t expect to get the pleasure of seeing you in it.” He sits up from where he’s lounging and smiles. “My brother’s cloak does not make a good accessory.” There’s a slight bitterness in his tone and you snap your arms back underneath the shield of the cape.

“How did you manage this?” you ask, your bafflement not having faded. “And why?” He shrugs.

“There are still people out there who owe me favors even when I’m locked away in here.” He stands and starts to walk towards you. “Your mother was very easy to convince, I heard. And as for the why part…” He sighs and shrugs again as he gets to the barrier. “It’s a gift.”

“A gift?” you scoff.

“There’s only so much I can offer from within the confines of my prison.” His words sound genuine, which somehow makes you distrust them. “You’ve given me books and companionship. The least I could do is give you a pretty dress worthy of your beauty.”

“You cannot buy me with pretty things,” you tell him, pushing back the blush from his compliment. His smile widens.

“Ah, but I have no need to buy you. I already have your company on a regular basis. I have nothing to gain from such a gift except for your gratitude, should you give it.” You see his eyes try to peer into the cape, to see the dress, but the large fabric hides it well.

“You get off on manipulation and playing with people,” you counter, refusing to let yourself be fooled with soft words. “You gain pure entertainment and pleasure by slipping me into this gown and me parading around in your signature color.” His eyes shift a shade darker, the smile melting into a smirk.

“Is that what you think?” He brings his forearm above his head and rests it on the barrier. “That I lay here in this cell and bring myself to heights of _pleasure_ to the thought of you wearing my color?” Your mouth snaps shut, having stumbled your way into something you hadn’t meant to. Images you’ll never admit you’ve wondered about before are suddenly filling your head. “I assure you my pleasures would come from slipping you _out_ of the gown, not into it.” Your hands fiddle together beneath the cape, breath caught in your throat. “But if you’re so sure, come now.” His eyes trace down you once with a slight nod. “Let me see it on you.” At this point, you’re not sure if he’s demanding or begging. You feel that rush of confidence and it turns to boldness as you lift your fingers up to the button at your neck.

“A show of gratitude, as you called it,” you rationalize as you enjoy the look of surprise in his eyes, having caught him off guard for once.

He remains silent as you push the cape from your shoulders and let it billow onto the floor. His eyes take their time traveling down every inch of your body and then slowly back up again. His breathing is forcedly slow, but his hand above his head has clenched into a fist. He licks his lips once before he speaks again, his voice a husky silk draping over you.

“Turn for me.”

There’s no hesitation in you as you slowly spin around, careful not to let your feet tangle in the cape as you do so. There’s a hiss from Loki when your back is exposed to him and you pause to look over your shoulder at him. There’s always been flirtation, the tease of something, but the way he’s looking at you now leaves no room for debate between either of you; there’s an attraction here. In this moment, you can’t pretend it’s one-sided either.

“Perfect place for a man to place his hand, isn’t it?” you ask coyly. His fist tightens as his hand hanging by his thigh harshly flexes in contrast. “Is that why you chose this one?” You begin to turn again so you can face him. “So you could imagine your hands on me?” He crooks his finger at you, beckoning you closer. Lifting the hem of the dress to avoid tripping, you approach the barrier.

“Do you wish to know what I imagine?” His voice is low and leans down towards you. “I can show you.”

“Show me?” you ask skeptically. Your hand comes to the barrier and his follows, reaching to touch you if only he could.

“Oh yes,” he chuckles. You see movement behind him and it startles you. You shift away from the barrier and he leans for you to see more clearly.

You’re looking at yourself. He’s projected an image of you standing beside an image of himself. You are facing away, the smooth of your back in full view in your dress. The image of him faces you, his hand teasing your shoulder with his fingertips as he watches your image’s face intently.

“I can show you all sorts of things.” The real Loki draws your attention back to him. “You may not be able to touch me, pet, but that doesn’t mean you can’t see it happen.” You can barely feel your feet on the ground and you know the barrier between you is the only thing stopping you from making a very, very bad decision.

“Is that what you do when you’re feeling lonely?” you ask him teasingly. “Put on a little show for yourself?”

“I wonder which answer it is you’re hoping for,” he teases right back. He has no interest in the illusion behind him and you find yourself unable to look away from the flesh and blood man in front of you too. He raises his hand, traces his finger along the barrier before your cheek. “For a man of illusions, I much prefer the real thing.”

“As do I.” There’s a flicker behind him as your images dissolve, but you pay little attention to it.

“Perhaps one day,” he muses.

“Perhaps.” There’s a slightly somber pause that allows the tension to fade enough for you to release yourself from his pull. “I can’t stay,” you tell him regretfully.

“I’m sure the feast wore you out tonight.” He sighs heavily and allows his hands to drop away and lean back.

“It was quite the event,” you admit. “And now I’m sure I’ll have to avoid prying eyes seeing as how I wore what Thor pointed out to me is _your color_.” Loki chuckles softly as you back away to gather the cloak and refasten it around your neck.

“I have a feeling the court will be much more interested in you walking around in and leaving the feast in Thor’s cloak.” You scoff at him and his notion.

“No one would believe Thor and I are anything of an item.” You readjust yourself and ready to bid him goodnight.

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! It has been probably my favorite to write.   
> Let me know you liked it by throwing out kudos or commenting! If you’re really feeling generous, buy me a coffee! https://ko-fi.com/writerashley
> 
> Keep up with my progress on Instagram! https://www.instagram.com/thatfandomwriter/


	7. Part Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize. This is mostly just filler and Loki doesn’t even make a physical appearance. Sorry guys!

The days after the feast are bustling with work. You throw yourself in new recruit training and the public garden expansion plans. You do absolutely anything and everything to try not to think about your last encounter with Loki, but every time you come back to your chambers, you fail to think of anything but.

You sit on your bed, erotic novel in your hand, still toying with the idea of sending it to him. You think of all the notes you could put inside, all the flirtatious ways you could tease him. There’s a small shadow of doubt, of fear of embarrassment that guides the book back onto your shelf every time however.

It’s where the book would end up this morning, you know. You flip through the pages once more, eyes catches glimpses of its dirty words. What would Loki think of those words? Would he enjoy them? Would he find them juvenile?

A harsh knock on your door startles you out of your musings. Your heart skips a beat and the instant adrenaline rush of the fear of getting caught with such a thing makes your hands jitter.

“Just a moment,” you call. The next knock is more insistent. You shove the book beneath your pillow and fluff the feathers of it once in hopes to make it look natural. “I’m coming!” you tell your intruder. You take a deep breath in an attempt to ebb the adrenaline, but it only works in the smallest way. When you open your door, your unexpected guest smiles at you. “Mother!”

“Hello my dear daughter,” she greets, ignoring your stunned face. She leans in to kiss you on the cheek before nudging her way inside despite being uninvited.

“What are you doing here?” You blink rapidly, your bafflement still intact as you close the door and watch as she scans your room. “You’re not usually in this area.”

“There was a gentleman who needed a poultice in this wing and I thought I’d deliver it and then come by to see my darling daughter.” She scrutinizes your décor, but has an unusually chipper smile on her face. As she walks delicately over to your bookshelf, you quickly go to stand at the head of your bed, as if trying to block her from discovering your hidden book.

After skimming over your novel selection, she turns and walks to your desk. Her fingers dance over the wood surface before her hand dips down to the silver knob of the drawer. The drawer you’ve stored all of your notes from Loki. That panicked adrenaline comes back.

“Mother!” you snap. “Did you come by for any reason other than to go through my things?” You’re effective in getting her to remove her hand from the drawer and avert her attention elsewhere. What in the stars would she have to say if she found the dozens of notes from Loki? You’d rather not find out right this moment. Honestly, you’d much rather she found your book instead.

“You know…” she muses. “I rather wish you would have told me yourself instead of hearing the rumors, my dear daughter.” Your brow furrows together in confusion.

“What rumors?” you question carefully. If there are in fact rumors about your encounters, you want to play this very strategically. Your mother only smiles slyly for a moment and then positions herself next to your desk chair.

“Oh please,” she scoffs. “Do you really think you’d be able to hide a relationship with the prince?” It takes every ounce of your professional skill to keep your expression even and collected.

“Mother, I’m not…” you stutter, pausing to swallow thickly. Why is she not furious? She’s still smiling gleefully. It’s then that you notice she’s deliberately placed her hand on top of the royal cloak over the back of your desk chair. “Oh, you mean Thor?” you exclaim, failing to hold back your rush of relief. She barks out a laugh.

“Well I certainly wasn’t referring to the _other_ prince,” she scoffs as though it’s absurd. It is absurd really, but somehow it’s also happening unbeknownst to her. “I had to hear it from Lady Angella that you and Thor have been spending time together.” You laugh, not even minding that she’s scolding you.

“Thor and I are not an item,” you assure her, starting to relax a little. “We spent two minutes together at the feast the other day. We _are_ friends. We do speak to each other.” She doesn’t look dissuaded however.

“Mmhmm,” she hums. “Friends don’t typically keep each other’s garments.” She wiggles her fingers over his cloak again and you find it hard not to get frustrated with her now. “And there are whispers that the prince may be taking a bride in the near future.” She looks quite pleased with herself. “Your name has been mentioned by many.”

“Would that be because you put my name in everyone’s ear?” You cross your arms over your chest and resist the disrespectful eye roll.

“I didn’t even have to this time,” she says cockily enough for you to believe her and that’s quite unnerving. Were there actual talks of Thor and yourself marrying? Now _that_ would be absurd! And yet… your mother hasn’t been the only one to say such a thing.

“This is ridiculous,” you tell her, shaking your head. “Thor and I are not involved. If he’s choosing a bride, it’s not myself.” Your words are pointed and confident, irritated even. “Now if you’ll excuse me,” You step up and put your hands on her shoulders, gently guiding her towards your door. “I have to get ready for the day.”

“You’re being rather coy about it all,” she comments as she reluctantly follows your guidance.

“Not one thing I’ve said here has been coy,” you argue, grabbing knob of the door and twisting it hurriedly. “Now out you go. Go worry about your patients and not about my possible future marital status.” You shoo her out of your room, but she turns back to face you the moment she crosses the threshold.

“You can’t fool your old mother,” she warns and wags a finger at you. “I know there’s something you’re not telling me.” There’s a little skip of fear somewhere inside your gut, but your irritation with her dominates your emotions.

“If you say so.” You can’t resist the eye roll this time and at the end of it, you catch Katerina walking down the hall towards you. “I see I have a delivery coming.” You point her out to your mother and make another motion to gently coax her away from your door. She bites her lip, unhappy about the decision, but does step back.

“I’m going, I’m going!” She turns to leave, but gives one final look over your shoulder. “Your hair looks lovely, by the way.” You close your eyes and let out a frustrated breath.

“Thank you, Mother.”

She leaves quietly after that and you wait at the doorframe for Katerina to approach with your breakfast tray. She gives you a polite smile.

“I don’t think I’ve seen your mother over this way before,” she comments in a pleasant tone.

“Yes, well… I rather wish it stayed that way.” The corner of Katerina’s lips tip upwards in the smallest fashion. “Come in,” you beckon her, holding the door open for her to step inside. She goes to the desk and sets the tray down.

“Do you have anything you need delivered today?” she asks.

You chew on your bottom lip for a moment. The irritation at your mother’s prying has sparked a little streak of rebellion inside of you. Marry Thor? Preposterous!Oh how knowing that you speak to Loki would drive her mad. To know the relationship isn’t as purely platonic as you like to claim? It may send her to her grave!

“Actually, yes,” you say, determination suddenly washing through you. You walk briskly to your bed and retrieve the novel from beneath your pillow. Jotting a quick note on the inside cover, you find your hand shaking ever so slightly. “Please deliver this.” You close the book and hand it to Katerina as confidently as you can. She glances at the cover and the title, but keeps her professional composure and seemingly doesn’t judge you for it before slipping it inside her robes.

“Delivery will be made this afternoon,” she confirms.

It’s only after she’s left that you start to worry about it being a mistake.

—

Your embarrassment keeps you away for a few days. You want to go see him as you honestly miss speaking with him, but the idea of facing him after giving him scandalous reading material on little more than a whim is nearly terrifying. So you busy yourself with other things, such as giving Thor his cape back.

It’s long overdue, but seeing as how you weren’t coveting it close to you at all times as some people liked to think, you never had it on hand when you saw him. So this evening, you scoop it up and drape it over your arm with a few folds and set off to find him for just this purpose.

He happens to be just outside the tavern, right where you had expected. Though the entire idea of more rumors being sparked of you two, it’s likely a good thing for the exchange to happen publicly. At least that way, everyone can see how casual and strictly friendly your interaction is as well as that you’re not keeping his clothes.

“Thank you for lending this to me,” you tell him as you unravel it from your arm. He takes it with a smile.

“It was no problem at all,” he assures. “Have you heard the rumors?” he asks with a small laugh. You duck your head and let out your own chuckle.

“I have,” you confirm. “Quite absurd, isn’t it?” He shrugs and sticks his chin out.

“Oh not too absurd in the realm of Asgard gossip,” he muses back to you. “We wouldn’t be the first pair of childhood friends to end up betrothed.” When he puts it that way, you suppose he’s not wrong. From the outside world, it does seem feasible.

“Are you getting as much pressure as they say about wedding a woman?” you ask softly.

“Oh I’m sure it’s exaggerated. It is not something I am worrying about for the moment.” He gives a wave of his hand to brush the idea away. “Will you be joining us this evening?” He gives a nod to the tavern door, but you shake your head.

“I have some plans I want to look over tonight still.” He gives you a polite smile at your gentle refusal.

“Well, then I shall bid you a good night.” He reaches forward and takes your hand in his, bowing his head as he brings it up, his fingers sliding under your palm until he’s just barely cradling the ends of your fingers. He presses his lips to the tops of your knuckles and gives you a playful wink. “Good evening, my Lady.”

“Are you trying to fan the flames of the rumors?” you tease, slipping your hand out of his.

“Of course not! You’d have to join us for drinks if I wanted to properly do that.” You both laugh before you pat him on the shoulder and tell him goodnight as well.

When you arrive back at your room, it takes you a few minutes to notice the sealed envelope sitting on your desk with your name in a fancy script that you recognize all too well as Loki’s. Your heart beats a little faster and you feel a breath get caught in your throat as you break the seal.

Inside, there’s a single page with a single sentence.

_I surely hope you don’t expect to get this delicious book back._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise things get steamy in the next part. Just wait. If you’re excited, let me know by sending kudos and commenting!
> 
> If you’re really feeling generous, buy me a coffee!  
> https://ko-fi.com/writerashley
> 
> Keep up with my progress on Instagram!   
> https://www.instagram.com/thatfandomwriter/


	8. Part Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it’s been forever. Bear with me, the story will always continue and be finished! It just may take some time.

You make your way through the cell block, lanterns on the wall guiding you along the way, though by now you’re fairly certain you’d make it to Loki’s cell in complete darkness. You know the route by memory anymore. Other prisoners generally ignore you as you walk by, most of them already in their beds for the evening. There’s the occasional whistle or holler, but they don’t bother you. You keep your chin high and just keep walking. Your nerves tonight are a little higher than usual however and it makes it hard not to wring your hands together as you walk.

You’re not sure how Loki will respond to you now that you’d given him the book. Would he mock you? Flirt? Scold? He would likely do all of it at once. You just hope to be able to keep your blush under control. You don’t wish to look as silly as you feel.

As you round the corner to his cell, you see him from his profile, sitting at small, round table. He’s dressed in soft, black pants and a dark jacket, feet bare as he leans over the table to write inside of a small notebook. He doesn’t seem to notice you and you take a moment, both waiting for him to see you and watching him gently. He seems so content in his cell, quill moving quickly along the paper the same as if he was sitting in his own private bed chambers in the royal wing.

“Planning your escape?” you tease once you realize he’s too enthralled in whatever he’s writing to notice you’re there. He raises his eyes to you and a hint of a smile comes to his lips when he sees you. He vanishes it quickly before lifting his head and leaning back in his chair.

“I like to keep my mind sharp,” he comments. “Reading isn’t enough to entertain me for the remainder of my indefinite solitude.” A reasonable answer. You have a bad habit of forgetting that his sentence in this cell currently has no ending period and the thought of an eternal imprisonment must be both very daunting and very boring.

“So you decided to write one of your own?” you ask with a smile, sitting down in the chair Decimus had again put out for you. Loki leans back further into his own chair, relaxing into it and crossing his hands in his lap.

“Perhaps I should write something in the realm of that delectable story you so generously shared with me?” He raises an eyebrow at you and smirks in a way that makes you itch for something; to fiddle your thumbs or to stand back up, to reach out to him, something.

“I thought it might help ease your loneliness at night.” You mean it as a joke, perhaps a friendly jab at his being unable to receive pleasure from another person, but it comes out of your mouth a little too soft.

“Ahhh, how kind,” he remarks. He ponders for a second, chewing on his tongue as it pokes around the inside of his cheek. He then moves his chair gracefully away from the table and faces you. You can’t help but believe that had it been you, the chair would have made an awful scraping noise against the floor and you would have looked foolish attempting to change its position without standing all the way up. Like everything else Loki does though, he does it seamlessly. “Does that mean you have no use for it?” he asks. “You’re not lonely at night?” You breathe slowly, trying to think through your answer, knowing the wrong one could spiral you into dangerous territory. You take too long however. “Is there someone warming your bed?” It’s not accusatory nor is there the sound of jealousy in his voice. You know he knows the answer already.

“The only person in my bed is myself,” you say firmly, crossing your legs and attempting to appear confident even though your insides feel like they may liquefy at any moment.

“Sounds… quite lonely,” he teases, eyes brightening in enjoyment. You scoff and give a soft roll of your eyes. “Tell me, if you have no suitor, then why has it taken you so long to come and visit?”

“I have been quite busy.” The excuse is out of your mouth before you can stop it. It’s a habitual reaction; a vague excuse spewed without thought. You know the moment it leaves your lips that he won’t accept it. He tsks and tilts his head ever so slightly.

“I have no doubt you are a busy woman,” he admits. “But I think we both know that’s not why you’ve stayed away.” His relaxed composure, the way he leans back and the entertainment on his face puts you off balance. There’s never been another man, another person, to do that to you so easily. “So tell me, pet. What is the real reason it took you so many nights to come back to me?”

There’s a defiant streak in you that wants to stand your ground and claim it’s the truth, but the deal of honesty looms over you and the gentle invitation of his voice pulls you back, urges you to tell the truth.

“I was unsure of your reaction to the book,” you admit, lowering your eyes to your hands.

“You feared ridicule?” There’s no sharp humor in his voice, no teasing that you can hear.

“Ridicule is such a harsh word.” You scrunch your face at it. “I worried you’d find it distasteful or me childish for having owned it.”

“Ahhh.” He nods. “You feared judgement.” He shrugs so casually as if to brush the suggestion away. “You need not fear judgement from me,” he tells you smoothly. “And I actually quite enjoyed your filthy little tale.” His lips tilt into a smirk and somehow this, his flirtatious teasing, is much easier to take. “The heroine of the story quite reminded me of you.” When you take a look at him, he locks his eyes with yours. “Quiet, a little shy at times, seemingly innocent, but she blossoms so beautifully when given the chance.” His voice darkens, takes on a smoothness like deep silk. “Did you connect with her, I wonder? Do you wish to have someone take control like that? To give you everything you desire but only after you beg for it?” You cross your legs tighter together and take a deep breath to steady yourself, unable to look away from him. His hands come to the armrests of the chair and glide down the lengths of them. All you can imagine is his hands making the same motion along your bare thighs. “Is that what you’d want, my love? To straddle a man, hands on his chest, using him as you wish? Making him writhe and beg beneath you?” He begins to lean forward slowly. “Or perhaps you’d want his hands on your hips, guiding your rhythm to please him as he encourages, commands you to take pleasure?”

Your tongue feels heavy in your mouth and no matter how many times you try, you cannot form a reply of any kind. Your mind fogs with images of him beneath you. How would his chest feel under your palms? What expression would he wear, staring at your naked body on top of his? Loki interrupts your fantasies when he slowly pushes himself to his feet.

“And why, I wonder, did you send it?” He continues to speak as he slowly approaches the barrier. “Were you being purposely coquettish?” As he comes closer, you see his eyes flickering with a dark excitement. You squeeze your hands together and focus on the feeling of the chair beneath you, trying to anchor yourself to it and resist standing to meet him at the barrier. “Do you enjoy teasing the god inside the glass cage?”

“I’m not entirely convinced you couldn’t break free if you wanted,” you admit, only being able to find your words when you clear away the images of you two entangled together. He chuckles and lifts his forearm above his head to lean onto the barrier. It flickers angrily and you can hear the gentle buzz of it operating.

“Oh trust me, my dear. I’ve already tried.” He pauses and bites his lip, letting his eyes finally leave yours to roam down your body. When he lingers on your legs, you find yourself wanting to uncross them. “Do you not think I would have come to you already if I could come and go as I please?” Would he really? Would he appear in your room and sweep you onto your bed if he could? Gods, that shouldn’t appeal to you so much. “Sadly, this prison was built all too well. Though… there are certain magics I have not tried as of yet.” That snaps something cold inside of you, quelling the desire and quicksand of fantasy. The harsh reality is that if Loki escapes, it’s not your chambers he’d be fleeing to and you realize there’s still a small piece inside of you that fears what he would do.

“You’re trying to get out?” you question. He lets the lusted glaze on his face fall and he simply smiles at you as though you don’t understand what he’s said. It frustrates you in a small way.

“You have avoided my question,” he says, directing the conversation back to where he wants it. “What caused you send me such a book?”

“My mother,” you answer with a sigh. He looks puzzled and pulls his arm from the barrier.

“’Tis not the answer I expected,” he admits and you can’t help but let out an airy laugh at his confusion. It may not have been an attractive answer or the answer he wanted, but it is the truth.

“She just has such a skewed view of the galaxy.” You shake your head, recalling your frustration with her. “She’s so convinced that Thor and I are an item or could be betrothed and she just looks down on you or anyone she views as less than acceptable.” You bite your tongue and hold back a smile. “I can just imagine the look on her face if she knew I interact with you, if she knew I sent you something so scandalous.” A full smile breaks through on his lips and it’s hard not to mirror it.

“Penelope never did take a liking to me,” he laughs and the sound is infectious. You find yourself relaxing, the tension buzzing through your body and keeping your legs firmly pressed together slowly dispersing.

“Most likely because you always called her Penelope.” He raises his brow and opens his arms in question.

“Tell me, have I been mistaken all these years or is that, in fact, her name?”

“You know she prefers to be addressed by her title,” you playfully scold. “That may actually be her first reaction. _Oh no, not the fool who calls me Penelope. Anyone but him!_ ” you imitate your mother’s voice and Loki ducks his head in laughter.

“Well luckily for our dear Penelope, I can do no more than speak to you for now.” Those words again. _For now._ There’s an implication in them that sits uneasily with you. When he lifts his head, he easily reads your emotion. “Worry not,” he comforts. “I have no intentions of escape.”

And in this moment, you believe him.

Perhaps it’s the deal of honesty you’ve formed or the connection you have. Perhaps it’s a foolish sense of loyalty that doesn’t actually exist. You’re still not sure, but right now, as he stands in front of you with no trace of trickery in his eyes, you believe he’s telling you the truth.

“Why?” you ask softly. “Why do you not wish to be free?” The smile on his face slowly fades and is replaced by something a little more somber. He hesitates and you can tell by the way he cast his eyes down and the twitch in his hand at his side that he’s thinking. Hesitating.

“Perhaps this is where I’m meant to be,” he admits quietly. There’s a hurt in his voice you haven’t heard before. You’ve heard the guilt when he’s spoken about what he’s done, the anger and regret, but never pain before. You want to reach out to him, to hold his shoulder or wrap your arms around him and take the pain away. All you can do is stand and come close.

“If you were to be released, would you leave?” you ask carefully, wishing he would look at you again. You’d always thought Loki would be gone the moment he had a chance, but maybe he wouldn’t. Is this his punishment to himself? Is that how he accepts responsibility?

“I may. If I had somewhere to go.” Something wells in your chest and your hand comes up instinctively to touch him. It hits the barrier and buzzes against your skin, but you don’t remove it. His eyes come up, a small amount of surprise in them when he sees you in front of him, your palm reaching for him. He lifts and traces his fingers over the outline of your hand. “Where would you go?” You think about it for a moment before answering in a breath.

“I would stay.” He watches his own fingers and hums. “This is my home.” There’s a dip in his face, at the corner of his lips and it causes you to ache again.

“I don’t have a home,” he says quietly.

You open your mouth to disagree with him, but the more you try to rationalize it in your mind, the more you understand that it’s not that he has a home, but that you _want_ him to have a home. Because he feels like a part of yours.

“I wish I could go somewhere with you,” you tell him, pressing your hand harder to the barrier and wanting nothing more than to feel his touch.

“Where?” he asks, eyes still watching as his fingers dance around the barrier at your palm. He leans in as if to touch his forehead to yours if only he could.

“Anywhere,” you answer breathlessly. He pauses for a long moment and then closes his eyes.

“I wish so as well.”

When he opens his eyes and looks at you, he looks soft and fragile. There’s a longing in his stare that you can feel within yourself and, be it foolish or not, you full-heartedly believe there’s a connection between you that runs deeper than friendship, deeper than attraction. There’s a part of you that aches knowing you’ll never get the chance to explore it.

Loki breathes deeply and blinks and his face comes back hard. He slips back into his façade and shifts away from you so smoothly that you almost miss the reluctance he fights. You take your own step back, allowing him to go.

“I should finish my writing,” he says coolly. You give him a shy smile.

“Are you sending me away?” He can hear the jest in your voice and gives you one more smirk.

“Only for tonight, my darling.” You both retreat fully from the barrier and you turn to make your exit. You pause for a moment, hand on the stone wall before rounding the corner and watch as he sits back down.

“Goodnight, Loki.” The ghost of a smile on his lips makes your heart flutter a little.

—

The following day you take your lunch to the gardens. You’ve always found some kind of peace here among the soft colors and subtle fragrances. While the colder weather is slowly seeping in, the flowers haven’t gone dormant yet and you need no more than a light cloak to keep a chill off your skin.

You see Sif approach the garden gate and smile at her, always welcome to her company. As she comes through and starts walking towards you, your smile melts away. She’s prickly; boots crunching through gravel quickly with purpose and eyes casting back and forth, looking for other people who might be near. She looks nervous and displeased and when she sits beside you on the bench, she does it with a huff.

“Is everything alight?” you ask carefully. The answer is obvious, but what else were you to say? She turns her body to face yours and leans in, lowering her voice.

“I saw you entering the prison last night,” she tells you. You can feel the blood drain from your face and attempt to stop yourself from freezing in place. “Decimus was less than forthcoming about who you went to see so late, but it doesn’t take more brains than I have to figure it out.” You place your lunch to the small empty space on the other side of you if nothing more than to make yourself move in a casually way. Lies die on your tongue and your mind rattles for some excuse, for some reasonable thing to say to calm her, to convince her it’s not what she thinks. Except that it is exactly what she thinks and Sif is not a person you ever wish to lie to. She sees the admission when you lower your eyes into your lap and she sighs, frustrated with you. “Why would you wish to see him?” Astonishment, bewilderment, and concern all ring in her voice. It irritates you.

“Because he’s still a person,” you hiss, more sharply than you intended. “He was our friend once, but everyone seems to forget that.” You look at her and straighten your face, hiding your own anger. “He was your friend once too, you know.”

“ _Was_ ,” she insists. “The past tense is an important distinction. He betrayed us all, or did you forget that?” she mocks.

“I have not forgotten,” you snap. “And neither has he.”

“What do you hope to gain from visiting him?” There’s a bit of disgust in her voice that puts you on edge.

“My _friend_!” You don’t mean to shout. You both look around the gardens to make sure there is no one you might have drawn attention from. Taking a deep breath, you try to articulate yourself a little better this time. “I care about Loki,” you admit softly. “He is far from perfect and yes he’s made terrible mistakes, but he is still my friend and I miss him, Sif.” Emotions start to brew inside of you and your voice starts to crack. “I miss him.” She lets you pause to recollect yourself. “Not everything and everyone is always as it seems. He’s flawed, yes, but I can’t control how I feel.”

“He’s dangerous.” She says it softly, trying now to withhold her own distain for him. “I fear he will take advantage of you.”

“Do you think me some delicate flower he can crush in his palm?” You scoff. “Have some trust in me to know better.” Sif reaches quickly and takes one of your hands in both of hers.

“You know that’s not what I mean to imply.” She gives you hand a squeeze and a slight shake, silently asking you to look at her. “It’s clear he’s already hurt you with what he’s done. I do not want you to get hurt again.”

“I appreciate your concern, but you needn’t worry,” you attempt to assure her. “What’s the worst that can happen anyways? He talks me to death from his cell?” Your attempt at humor does little to ease the tense lines on her face. You realize there’s not much you’re going to be able to do to convince her and your chest tightens. “Are you going to mention this to anyone?” Sif holds her breath for a moment, considering and you bite on your tongue, waiting as patiently as you can.

“No,” she finally says and you let out a breath of relief. “But only because of my trust in you,” she amends. You smile softly at her and return her squeeze on your hand.

“Thank you my friend.” It feels less like a secret and a burden now that she knows and it lifts a small weight from your shoulders that you hadn’t quite realized was there.

“If I suspect you’re in trouble, I will not hesitate to tell Thor,” she warns before purposefully softening her face. “Please just be careful with him,” she pleads gently.

“Of course I will.” You try to ignore the way that sentence tastes like a lie on your tongue.

“It is ironic that rumors of you and Thor are running rampant,” she comments, withholding a small, amused smile. “When it’s the _other_ prince you’re actually having relations with.” Your jaw drops and you remove your hand from hers to give her a gentle, playful shove.

“I am not having _relations_ with anyone!” She laughs alongside you. “How do these rumors of Thor and I keep spreading? It’s absurd!”

“Well rumor will have it that it’s _not_ a rumor and you have been put into consideration for his betrothal,” she says through a thin smile, still enjoying your reaction. You recall what Loki had said, that Frigga had put forth your name in the past. Even if she had, you still can’t bring yourself to believe anyone would be serious about putting yourself on the throne.

“I’m sure that’s made you quite jealous, what with your crush on Thor,” you tease her and laugh as this time it’s her jaw that drops open.

“That was years ago!” she protests. “I have no such feelings for him!” You can’t help the laughter that bubbles out of you hard enough to bob your shoulders and you bring your hand to your mouth in an attempt to contain yourself. “Oh for star’s sake. You want to marry him then be my guest.” She gives you a playful push of her own. “I’d rather it be you than that human he’s infatuated with.”

“Oh come now,” you scold, finally composing yourself a bit. “Jane must not be all that bad.”

“She’s probably lovely,” Sif concurs. “But can you imagine a human as the Queen of Asgard? It would be madness.” You hum and tilt your head. Sif isn’t wrong, but you don’t like speaking ill of Thor’s friends. “We’ll see what comes of these rumors, I suppose.”

“Oh I’m sure there’ll be nothing at all.”

—

When you return to your chambers for the evening, it takes you slightly longer than last time to notice the envelope on your desk. You’ve already washed and put on your sleep clothes and a soft robe. You may have even missed it had you not remembered to put away your new quills you’d picked up this evening.

You had never thought the sight of a plain envelope with your name would make your heart skip, but it does. When you pick it up, it feels slightly thicker than the last one you’d gotten. Inside is a folded page ripped from Loki’s notebook, his handwriting cascading down the parchment. You clutch your robe tight to your body and sink into your desk chair, reading his words carefully.

_A man. A woman. A beach. After sunset. They meet in secret away from the duties of their lives, away from prying eyes who would judge._

_She arrives first and plants her feet in the sand, letting the cool water gently lap at her toes as she stares out into the abyss of ocean. Mountains in the distance, a planet rising up over the horizon, stars shining brightly above her._

_He comes from behind her, but does not startle her. His arms wrap around her waist, pull her close enough to bury himself into the side of her neck. Gentle kisses and small nips along the column of her throat. One hand rising up her belly, the other slipping down._

_He tells her he’s missed her…_

_Care to continue the tale yourself?_

He wants you to write back to him, wants you to keep the story going. It takes little more than a small consideration to take one of your new quills, draw a line beneath his words, and start writing.


End file.
